


the profession of my fingers

by mellyflori



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: (not too bad though), 5+1 Things, Canon Compliant, Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, M/M, The Author Regrets Nothing, and not expect things like this to happen, look people you can't just say that luca argued for keeping those curls
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-13
Updated: 2020-08-24
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:48:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 24,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25873111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mellyflori/pseuds/mellyflori
Summary: It feels as if his heart is thrown open like the shuttered window of their room, laid bare to Yusuf's gaze. As if the answer to every mystery is in the heat where their hips meet, the low rumble of pleasure in Yusuf’s voice, and the damp silk of Yusuf’s hair clutched in Nicolò’s hands.Five times Nicky loved Joe's curls, and one time they meant nothing at all.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 342
Kudos: 1206





	1. 1 - Chittagong - 1345

**Author's Note:**

> I'm showing up three weeks late to the party, I didn't bring enough snacks, and I'm ignoring the editing on the final two chapters of the work I've been meaning to update for a year. I'm not even sorry. This has been briefly beta'd, but my beloved comma fucker is writing her part of a piece we're co-authoring in this fandom, and trust me when I say you really would rather have her be doing that than editing mine. With that in mind, please turn as much of a blind eye as you can to spelling and punctuation errors, at some point I'll pick them all out.
> 
> Chapters are varying lengths, and not all E-rated. They're written, and will be posted this week as I edit them. Title is from Michael Ondaatje's "The Cinnamon Peeler."
> 
> Oh, and I realize there's some debate to be had about accent marks, given that the comics don't have them and some official content doesn't either, but I'll be honest with you guys, the bard in my Friday night D&D game is an Italian citizen, and fluent in the language, and my world will be a nicer place if she stays happy with me. So the accent marks stay. (Vicious mockery, y'all. She's got vicious mockery.)

The room is sweltering. Hot, humid air hangs over the landscape like a blanket, and throughout the day, they’d both prayed for any hint of a breeze.

Nicolò can feel a drop of sweat tracking from his bent knee clear down to his ankle. 

The city around them is alive with noise and activity, even now when it’s past late evening into full night, and the sky is inky dark. By itself, this tiny room is perfectly ordinary. What makes it special for them, is the company they keep, the door that locks, and the enormous shuttered window looking over the street. It stretches clear to the floor with a stone railing on the outside to keep them from taking a wrong turn and walking out into thin air. 

Earlier today, Yusuf had leaned out over the railing, looking into the street below to leer at Nicolò, casting him filthy grins until Nicolò’s ears were pink. Right now, Yusuf’s face is mostly shadow, the room lit only by the solitary lamp on their table, and the hazy glow from lamps in other windows along the street. 

“Are you going to move,” Nicolò asks.  
  
“Were you in a hurry to get somewhere?”

Nicolò drops his head back onto the bed with an exasperated grunt. This day has been slow like sap; there’s no reason tonight should be otherwise. 

"Surely, Lord, you’ve sent this man to test me.”

“Did you want me to test you? Because I can—“

“Thank you, Lord, for the gift of this great compassionate spirit in my life.”

Nicolò hears a low chuckle beside his head and the sting of teeth sinking into his earlobe.

Tomorrow there will be a ship, and when it leaves again, they’ll be on it, off to reunite with their sisters and see what the world still has to show them. Today, though, they’d been at loose ends, playing a waiting game with the tide. In the morning, before it had gotten more than just miserably hot, they’d gone down to the market to buy roasted fish, mango, and rice steamed in banana leaves. The fish had been salty and rich, the rice sticky and just a little sweet. They’d put the mango on the table and dedicated the rest of the morning and afternoon to wanton indolence. 

Nicolò has a book of poetry he’s been memorizing, and Yusuf’s fingers had already been itching to draw even when they were still holding balls of rice and fish.

When the sun was high overhead, and the worst of the heat was baking the city around them, they'd pushed the bed into the most shaded corner of the room and slept. Rarely, and only in extremes like now, when it’s too hot to be touching, they sleep with space between them. Unaccustomed to the lack of contact, they’d eventually drifted off and passed a few fitful hours. 

The sun had caught up with them, making its way into their little shady corner and licking it’s way up Yusuf’s lower leg. Driven awake by the added heat on them, they’d curled up, facing each other, and talked for a bit, imagining where they might go next and what help they could be to those people. 

Nicolò had whispered praise for his lover and gotten a sleepy smile in return. Some perfect days are full of adventure; some perfect days are full of nothing but smiles like that. Together, they’d moved the bed again, pushing it against the window, hoping to catch any stray gusts.

Pulling a knife from his pack, Yusuf had sliced the mango and passed every other piece to Nicolò to watch him lick the juice from his fingers.

“You’re doing that on purpose,” he’d said.

“My heart, would I do such a thing?” Nicolò took another piece and held it, smiling, guileless, as it dripped down the side of his hand and over the bones of his wrist.

It had been hours since they’d touched, driven apart by the heat and humidity, and it was beginning to wear on them both. To be denied each other’s skin by time or distance was one thing, but to be so close to each other and not touching only by their own choice is somehow so much harder to take.

That drip of mango juice had been more than Yusuf could resist. He’d growled low, diving across the bed to take Nicolò’s arm and lick it clean. 

“Sweet,” he’d said, and Nicolò had known every meaning behind that single word.

Yusuf had held a piece in his mouth and told Nicolò that if he wanted some, he should come and get it, and they’d laughed into each other’s mouths as Nicolò bit off his share.

“You have a spot just here,” Nicolò said once the fruit was gone and ducked his head to lick the notch of Yusuf’s collar bone. 

In exchange, Yusuf had sucked every bit of pulp from Nicolò’s fingers and pushed him back on the bed.

It had been too hot to move much, but they’d shed their clothes and reacquainted themselves with the touch of the other’s skin.

They’d moved against each other, still lazy in the late afternoon, sucking kisses into necks and shoulders, cocks never more than half-hard.

Hard to tell, really, when the mood had shifted, probably when Yusuf had added teeth to one of his kisses and Nicolò, hands cradling Yusuf’s head, had hissed and clutched Yusuf’s hair in his fingers. There’d been an answering gasp and a groan as Yusuf arched into the pull of Nicolò’s hands. They’d both nearly fallen off the bed in the scramble to find the little stoppered bottle of oil. 

Nicolò had become an incoherent wreck under the onslaught of Yusuf’s tongue against him. 

He’s grown to love this over the years, and what he loves best is how overwhelming the feeling is. 

Today was no different. First, the long swipe up the crease of Nicolò’s thigh, then that clever tongue hefting the weight of his balls, Yusuf moaning as they filled his mouth. Finally, fucking finally, the drag, hot and wet, over his hole again and again. Nicolò had writhed, rutted into the bed, trying to get friction against his cock while Yusuf's licked him open, pushing in a little more each time. Spread open like that, Nicolò was vulnerable and desperate, stretched and aching around the relentless fuck of Yusuf's tongue.

By the time Yusuf had slicked his fingers with oil and pressed against him, Nicolò was boneless, so open and needy he took three right from the start. 

That had been an hour ago, at least, and now here they are, Yusuf’s cock barely inside him, the head tugging lightly at Nicolò’s hole each time Yusuf breathes. Braced on his elbows, Nicolò’s earlobe between his teeth, the rest of Yusuf's body is quiet and still.

Yusuf dips his hips just a bit before pulling back, and Nicolò’s entire body is so sensitive by now that he moans and feels the roll of his body start at his head and work its way down. The feeling as that movement lets Yusuf slip a little deeper inside him is what breaks Nicolò.

Both of his hands grip the sides of Yusuf’s head, fisting in his hair and pulling his face up until they are looking each other in the eye and sharing breath. 

“Move,” he begs.

“I’ll consider it.”

Nicolò growls. “I see. On second thought, don’t move.” Yusuf’s hair is damp with sweat under his hands, every curl seeming to shine in the lamplight, and Nicolò wants never to let go.

Feet against the bed, Nicolò splays his knees wide, opening himself like a wanton. With the leverage of his hands, gripping Yusuf’s hair, and the solid bed under his feet, he rocks his hips up, feeling Yusuf sink deeper into him. Yusuf groans and his eyes fall shut.

Nicolò tightens his grip, can hear the answering hiss of breath. 

“Open your eyes,” he says. “Good. Like that. Look at me. Yes. Your heart is in your eyes, even in the dark.” Yusuf sucks in a breath, then chokes it back out as Nicolò curls his hips again, drawing Yusuf deeper. 

His grip on Yusuf’s hair tightens and releases, then tightens again as he feels Yusuf try to pull back. With barely any range of motion, it’s hard to truly call this fucking. Nicolò whines, he can’t help himself, and bucks his hips up as much as he can, trying to get more and more of Yusuf's cock.

Sweat is running down Yusuf’s forehead, dripping from his nose. Nicolò can feel it hit his face and he licks at the spot, tasting his lover on his skin. 

“Yusuf,” he says. “I want— Stay here.” He wants it all, the punishing drive of Yusuf’s cock into him, the feel of Yusuf’s hair in his fists, Yusuf’s eyes meeting his. He wants Yusuf to fucking move already, while also staying so still Nicolò can see his muscles bunching in the lamplight, just because Nicolò asked him to. The restraint Yusuf is showing, all to please Nicolò, is intoxicating.

“Nico, I need—“

“Good.” He’s searching Yusuf’s face, looking for every moment of pleasure as Nicolò chases that feeling of being filled, sated.

“Let me. I feel what you want. Every time you—fuck—every time you pull me in, you want more, want to keep me there. Let me.” He never takes his eyes from Nicolò’s. “You’ll be so full, Nico.” He’s making filthy promises, and Nicolò wants to lick them from his mouth.

“Prove it.”

Looking straight at Nicolò with eyes that must sting with sweat by now, Yusuf drops his hips and rocks forward, driving the breath from Nicolò’s lungs.

“Oh!” Because how can Nicolò say everything in his heart right now? How can he say that it feels like his body was meant for this, to love this man in every possible way. It feels like his heart is thrown open like the shuttered window of their room, laid bare to Yusuf's gaze. As if the answer to all mysteries is in the heat where their hips meet, the low rumble of pleasure in Yusuf’s voice, and the damp silk of Yusuf’s hair still clutched in Nicolò’s hands. How can he say that he knows from the sound of Yusuf’s cries that at this moment, to this man, Nicolò is perfect. 

“Oh!” he says again and lets the rest live in the space between their breaths.

Yusuf isn’t pulling back, isn’t giving him the long, heavy thrusts Nicolò usually craves, the ones that make him fall apart. Instead, Yusuf is grinding, driving, rocking them together, and Nicolò gives the same back. Another drop of Yusuf's sweat hits Nicolò’s face, and he can feel his own sweat running back from his temples, making the nape of his neck slick and hot.

Nicolò loosens his grip on Yusuf’s hair to cradle his face, stroke his cheeks and beard, cup the back of Yusuf’s head, and draw him close enough to kiss.

The kisses have barely-banked savagery. Nicolò is biting the line of Yusuf’s jaw, tugging Yusuf’s lower lip with his teeth, sucking hard over and over against the thin, soft skin behind Yusuf’s ear. There’s a growl, and Nicolò isn’t sure which one of them it came from until he feels the tendon along the side of his neck gripped in Yusuf’s jaws. 

He could come any second; he could stay on edge like this until morning. Nothing is tipping the balance, so they remain as they are, riding this limbo of sensation and pleasure. Yusuf rolls his hips again, and his cock brushes just the right spot to have Nicolò seeing stars.

Outside, there is a sound like the heavens have been torn open, and the smallest breeze comes through the window, cooling the sweat on Nicolò’s arms.

For a split second, the room is lit bright as day. In that instant, Nicolò can see Yusuf’s face clearly, can see the longing there, as though even now they aren’t close enough, partnered with an incandescent joy Nicolò knows is reflected on his own face.

Nicolò digs his fingers in again, winding them through Yusuf’s hair and pulling his head up so they’re looking at each once more. Their heads are still; only their faces show how they are both chasing their pleasure in the other.

“I—“ 

Nicolò’s words are cut off by another booming crack, and then the skies open. Huge heavy raindrops hit the railing outside their window hard enough to be spattering against the floor, the bed, their bodies. Just as Nicolò starts to wonder if this storm will pass quickly, the rain gets louder. It’s bouncing off the edges of the window now.

Yusuf blinks and jerks his head to the side as a particularly ambitious raindrop hits him in the eye. He’s sputtering and shaking the water from his face. 

The tension in the room breaks just like the rain. Nicolò starts laughing, tilting his face to the window to catch some on his tongue. 

Grinning, Yusuf ducks his head and kisses Nicolò, lapping raindrops from his mouth. Nicolò licks the rain from Yusuf’s cheeks and chin, kisses it off his eyelids as Yusuf laughs.

Still smiling, Yusuf rocks back on his knees, pulling almost entirely out only to fuck back in again, hard. Nicolò feels the “Ah!” burst from his mouth. Between his fingers, he can feel the downpour soaking Yusuf’s hair, turning it from an unruly mess into a drape of heavy curls that brushes his chin. 

Warm rain is pelting him, but Nicolò is drowning in Yusuf’s stare. He is lost and found all at once as the drag of Yusuf’s chest hair against his cock tips him over, finally, and he comes, the joy bubbling out of him in a laugh.

Yusuf follows him over the edge, still fucking himself into Nicolò again and again, still alight with happiness.

They push the bed back against the other wall and drop the sheet in a sodden heap in the corner, thankful they won’t need it. Stepping up to the stone ledge outside the window, they let the warm rain rinse their bodies clean. No doubt they’re scandalizing a neighbor, but they’ll be leaving in the morning, so they’re shameless in the moment.

Back in the bed, Nicolò props himself up on his elbow and looks down into Yusuf’s face. He takes one of those dark, perfect curls and rubs it between his thumb and forefinger. He thinks about telling Yusuf how much he loves him; he hasn’t said it in hours. He thinks about trying to articulate how, even after all they’ve been through, he keeps his faith partly because it gives him a place to put his gratitude for having Yusuf in his life. He wonders if it’s worth searching for a way to put into words how happy Yusuf makes him even on their hardest days. 

Instead, Nicolò kisses him. Then, in a fit of fancy, he kisses the curl still held between his fingers, before brushing it back from Yusuf’s face. 

They arrange themselves on the bed, slotting their bodies together, and Nicolò feels strong arms pull him close and wrap around him. With Yusuf’s steadfast warmth at his back, he lets his mind drift, listening to the rain.


	2. 2 - Pittsburgh - 2003

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little one, this time, and no smut, but here is where it started. I've had this layover on the way to a weekend in Venice. I've stayed in that room and had that late-night walk. It was perfect, and I'm tickled to share it with these two.
> 
> Thank you all for such a welcoming, enthusiastic response. I've been overwhelmed and delighted. It warms the cockles of my heart. Maybe even lower. Maybe in the sub-cockle area. Kudos are a joy and comments are better than gelato, and that's fucking saying something. 
> 
> More tomorrow, if for no other reason than to give me a break from squinting at 19th century ships' logs. 
> 
> (maybe not better than pistachio gelato, because come on, it's *pistachio gelato*)

Pittsburgh - 2003

"Blue or black?" Joe turns away from the display to show Nicky.

"You want to buy a baseball cap?"

Joe settles on the blue, grinning as he puts it on.

They're in town for nothing special. It's a layover between one flight and another, but it's several hours, so they're going through every shop in the airport. 

It's been a long week, a long decade, if he's honest. They'd spent years in one war zone after another, day after day of blood and anger and never feeling like they were making the slightest difference. Between the four of them, they'd kept each other going, because really, what was their other choice? It never got easier though. The 24-hour news cycle came of age in September of 2001, and anymore it feels like the world has so many pockets of tragedy they don't even know where to start.

So, a day in the airport shops, a weekend in Venice, and waking up not to the sound of screams or gunfire, but to the sound of water lapping against the wood and stone of the city the way it has for hundreds of years. They need this. They've earned this.

It's hard to remember why the world is worth saving if you can't remember why you love being a part of it.

Tomorrow they'll reach the room they've rented on a quiet side street near La Fenice. When night falls, Nicky will take Joe's hand and walk through the streets and alleyways for hours. He wants to watch as the reflection of dim light on water plays across Joe's face. 

"I think it looks good," Joe says to his reflection in the display stand's tiny mirror.

Nicky raises an eyebrow. Though, in fairness, he thinks everything looks good on Joe. He prefers Joe in nothing at all, but unwrapping the gift is part of the fun. 

Joe looks at Nicky, grabs the bill of the cap and spins it around backward. 

"How about now?"

Such a small movement, but Nicky is undone. 

The smallest puff of curls is poking up through the half-moon of open space above the snaps. Little tufts are sticking out in front of each of Joe's temples as well, and Nicky wonders how in the world he's supposed to take this man seriously.

He starts to laugh, and it feels like the first good laugh in months. The joy that spreads across Joe's face in response is like watching the dawn break over a mountain, it's bright and clear and pure, and Nicky wants to bask in it. 

"You're serious?"

"Why not?"

He wants to say that wearing it backward like that is ridiculous because Joe isn't a college kid from central Florida, but Joe's expression is pure delight right now, and that's all that matters to Nicky. If Joe's happy, Nicky's happy; it's as simple as that.

Nicky covers the distance between them in two long strides and grabs Joe by the sides of his face. He brings their foreheads together, feeling the warmth and comfort that comes from being within a breath of his heart's other half. 

With the cap backward like that, Nicky doesn't have to do any tilting or maneuvering to kiss Joe. Nicky simply leans in and kisses him.

He can feel Joe's happy hum vibrating against his lips. This, Nicky thinks, is at least part of why Joe turned the cap around; he knows how much Nicky loves these kisses. 

In other times and places, it had been easier, at least on the surface. There had been points in their lives when they'd kissed in public and not drawn a single stare. Different attitudes, Nicky knows. Different fears. For too many of their recent decades, every public kiss came with uncertainty. Would this kiss get them kicked out of the restaurant? Would holding hands mean being screamed at in the street, or worse? They'd have survived of course, but a kiss shouldn't come with that kind of weight.

They fought so hard and so long to be in this place, this time together. Even after years of steady progress and positive change, it still takes Nicky's breath away to be right out in the open, unreservedly, demonstrably in love.

It's their very ordinariness that makes these casual kisses so precious, and Joe is going to make sure Nicky can have them whenever he wants, as effortlessly as he wants, even if it means going into the world wearing a backward baseball cap.  
  
Nicky kisses Joe's forehead, seeing the little fluff of hair again. It's an exuberance, a cloud of silk, and he wants to bury his nose in it until he can smell nothing but this perfect man.

Nicky wants to, and he can, so he does, tilting Joe's head so he can feel every soft curl against his face. Rubbing his cheek against Joe's hair, Nicky chases the smell of their soap. Someday soon, this cap will have stains on it — blood and dirt and gunpowder smears, the viscera of their lives. Eventually, a bullet will tear a hole into one side of it and out the other, but as long as Joe opens his eyes afterward, Nicky has everything he needs.

"You should absolutely buy the hat," Nicky says, his voice full of easy love and quiet joy. "I like how it looks with your hair."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can, as always, be found on the [tumbls](http://werebearbearbar.tumblr.com).


	3. 3 - Heading for the Straits of Gibraltar - 1814

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joe turns to look out at the water, the coasts of Spain and Morocco to either side, and the flock of ships around them. They’re in a beam of sunlight, and those lighter bits of Joe’s hair are the color of burnt honey. This high up, the wind is stronger, and three or four longer curls are whipping across his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last week I said to my comma fucker, "And Gibraltar will be relatively short, and no smut." I'm terrible at this, you guys. 
> 
> Just a couple of quick notes:
> 
>   * Are we going to have a debate about whether the head dude on a merchant ship is called a master or a captain? We are not. Because I've found conflicting answers, and also I've spent two days now with my face so deep in research my eyes hurt. I've decided to go with the terminology from several action reports by Royal Navy captains at the time, and in the Lloyd's register of ships they underwrote for that year.
>   * Do I have a specific ship in mind? Of course I do. Have I studied pictures of her rigging? Absolutely. Have I squinted for hours looking at the diagrams of the rigging around the main top? Have you met me?? Did I watch a couple of videos of sailors on modern tall ships making that same climb? Yes, and then I watched about 20 more because they're amazeballs. 
>   * Did I check a bunch of 18th and 19th century naval maps of the Mediterranean? Yup. Do they all have a bunch of conflicting labels for things? Yuuuuup. Are we going to go with the details from the map commissioned by Nelson in 1799? Damn skippy. 
> Is it possible, even after all that, I still got a bunch of crap wrong? Yes. Please accept some smut as an apology in advance. What I'm saying here is that I super tried, but I'm only human. Also, I meant to have this up yesterday but it needed more editing than expected. And now I shall faceplant into my bed. Thanks for sticking with me guys.

> 
> In conclusion: Joe is the one who tells dad jokes. This is the hill I wil l die on.

Some people are born with the sea in their hearts; the first step aboard a ship feels like they can breathe properly for the first time, and they handle the sails like the rigging has whispered secrets to them. Nicky is one of them.

Joe is decidedly not.

They’ve tried their hand at sailing over the centuries, and Joe is quite good at it. Still, it’s not his favorite way to travel. Nicky, on the other hand, loves it. 

From Venice, there were other ways to Paris besides a ship. They could have made their way to Padua and picked up any other form of transport. Thanks to years of steady work and a few decent investments, they had more than enough money to buy a couple of well-bred horses and set off together on a journey they’d share with only each other. If they’d wanted company, merchants traveling overland would be glad of escorts who could handle a pistol and wield a sword. Maybe it would have been a patchwork journey, but they would have gotten to their destination.

An embarrassment of riches, really, and Nicky would have been fine with any of them because he’d have had Joe next to him. He’d even said as much. “We could walk to Paris with nothing but the clothes on our backs, as long as I’m walking beside you,” he’d said, and he meant it.

In the end, the fact that Nicky hadn’t even mentioned a sea voyage, been willing to forego that pleasure on Joe’s behalf, was probably why Joe had insisted on it. 

“Are you sure?” Nicky had asked. “A ship is faster, but the route is longer, it might end up taking more time than we expect.”

“As long as I’m beside you,” Joe’s answer echoed Nicky’s earlier words, “then I’m in no hurry.” Nicky had kissed Joe then, slow and sweet, licking the taste of rosewater from his mouth. 

  
“Do you need me to come with you?” Joe asked the next morning as Nicky was leaving to find passage for them. 

“My love, you would be bored out of your mind. Stay here; enjoy being an indolent layabout for a few hours.” One side of Nicky’s mouth had curled in a smile. “I bought some new oil earlier this week; it’s next to the basin on the table by the window. Perhaps you could try it and let me know what you think.”

“Nicky.” Joe’s voice had gone husky and dark.

“A final evaluation should happen when I get back, of course, but Joe, imagine how much faster I’ll be to return if I know you’re here testing it. Thoroughly.”

“Completely?” Joe had grinned at him.

“Oh, no. Not without me, but short of that, you should certainly be as extensive as possible in your evaluation.”

“Nicolò,” Joe said, drawing out the final vowel, and Nicky heard the challenge there. He braced himself on the arm of Joe’s chair and bent to kiss him, though not deep or hard enough to start something he couldn’t finish. As he walked down the hall and out the door, he could hear Joe cursing, impressively, in at least four languages.

With the transport settled, they spent a few days settling their affairs. Neither of them knew when they’d be back, if they’d be back, but they’d been in this position before. Two nights before they left, Nicky extended a dinner invitation to the couple who had looked after the house during their last absence, and asked them if they would do so again. Joe would arrange for them to continue to be paid for as long as necessary. In a month or two, they would send a letter expressing their sorrow that this would likely be a much more prolonged absence than expected. They would ask if Signora Boffardi and her charming husband could please arrange another caretaker if they were unable to continue. They would express their heartfelt gratitude.

For them, setting down roots came with logistical concerns they hadn’t even imagined, but some places were worth the trouble. Venice was one of them. When anyone asked how they'd come to settle here, Nicky would tell them Joe loved the city. He flourished when surrounded by art and artists, and he loved being to see streets filled with visitors from so many places. And every word was true.

What Nicky didn’t say was that he adored Venice as much as Joe did. Possibly more. He loved the sense of family and timelessness. Nicky would walk the streets for hours, just for the pleasure of knowing that around every corner, there might be another beautiful building even older than the two of them. At night, he and Joe would find a spot to watch the lamplight play on the water as they luxuriated in the quiet. He loved everything, the food, the music, the people, the overly-complicated politics, and the positively labyrinthine social rules.

He doesn’t say any of that out loud, though, because he’s reasonably sure he’s already setting his mother rolling in her grave just by spending his life with Joe. He doesn’t need to break her Genoese heart by admitting, right out loud, that he loves Venice. (It’s not that she wouldn’t adore Joe, and it’s not that she would begrudge them love or happiness, it’s more an issue of, “Grandchildren, Nicolò! You would deprive your loving mother of the chance to hold her grandchildren?” As though she hadn’t had at least twelve of them by the time she died.)

Signora Boffardi said she would love to see them again, but insisted that they needn’t fuss with making a meal. There was always room for more at her family’s table, she said.

“She thinks we can’t cook,” Joe said.

“That’s half right, anyway.”

“That recipe was very complex, Nicolò!"

“The eggs were gray, Yusuf!”

Upon their arrival, she’d ushered them in and shown them to the table before stuffing them to the point of discomfort. 

After the meal, she’d stepped out of the room for a moment and returned to find her husband peppering them with questions about their upcoming trip.

“Leave them be, Davide.”

“I can’t ask questions?”

“Husband,” she said, fists on her hips, though her tone was full of affection, "love of my life, surely the Lord has sent you to vex me!” It was her favorite expression; Joe and Nicky had heard her say it at least a dozen times.

Davide had smiled back at her, showering her with compliments; under the table, Nicky had taken Joe’s hand, lacing their fingers together.

  
The ship Nicky had chosen would only get them part of the way. The rest of the trip would be easier on a larger vessel, preferably one with English registry. For two days, they’d basked in the warm Maltese sun until their next ship was ready to depart. Once the cargo was loaded, the merchant had sent a runner to fetch them. They’d been aboard, with their belongings stowed, in time for the convoy to set sail. 

Nicky has an irrational fondness for this ship. It’s not extraordinary in any way. It’s not particularly big, or fast, or pretty, but the crew is a cheerful bunch, and the master had extended an invitation to his cabin if they wanted a quiet place to read or draw during the day. Nicky knows most likely he just wants them out of the way, but they appreciate the offer anyway. There is only one other passenger, a fussy lawyer from Bristol, who goes below decks as soon as he boards. He only shows his face again to empty his bucket of sick over the rail.

Their first full day at sea, Nicky befriends a few of the crew and the boatswain. He tells them filthy stories about his time as a sailor, with the dates slightly modified. They laugh but stop short of actually believing the stories happened to him. Nicky smiles, indulgent, and asks if there is some way he could convince them.

Five feet away, leaning on the rail, Joe turns to Nicky and rolls his eyes so hard Nicky is surprised they don’t fall out.

Someone throws out the name of a knot, and Nicky grabs one end of a coil of line and uses the knot to lash Joe’s hand to the rail. Smirking, Joe finds the right loop to tug, and the knot slips free. They have a few other challenges for him as they go about their duties, asking the names of individual bits of rigging and demanding more details about his stories.

Pritchard, the boatswain, yawns extravagantly, as though this all bores him. “And if I asked you what a futtock deadeye is, could you put your hand on one?”

A laugh bursts out of Nicky loud enough to startle the ship’s cat as she walks past. He’s laughing because he knows that Pritchard isn’t asking him to identify what one is; he’s asking three other questions instead. In ascending order of terror, they are: What route will you take to get to it? Will you get close enough to put your hand on it? Will Joe kill us all if you fall to your death?

In his head, Nicky answers them in reverse order: You’re assuming I’d stay dead. Of course, I will. I’ll take the route that won’t get me laughed at for the rest of the time we’re on this ship.

“Do you think that I left my balls in my other trousers?” he asks. 

He can see Joe cock an eyebrow as Nicky puts one hand on the windward mainmast shrouds and one foot on the rail. Casting Joe a smile, he steps up and swings around. It might have been years since he’d done this particular task, but Nicky’s hardly been idle, and he knows this climb is more a mental challenge than a physical one. 

A voice reaches him, one of the seamen, “You don’t have—“

“Hey now,” Pritchard’s only speaking to his crew member, but he’s saying it loud enough for Nicky to hear. “If he wants to, let’s see it.”

As always, the long climb up the shrouds is the simple part. Nicky stops for a minute near the top just to take in the view. Ahead of them is the brig filled with cargo bound for the Royal Navy storehouses. Beyond that is the frigate escorting them. Nicky knows that half the crew is itching for an encounter, while the other half is praying for an uneventful passage. Everything else is blue, blue, blue, dotted here and there the sails of more distant vessels.

“Any day now!” Joe yells. With a grin, Nicky reaches up and grips one of the futtock shrouds. Two more steps and he’s in the worst of it, angled with his back to the sea, with all his weight hanging from his arms. The trick to climbing the futtocks, he knows, is just to keep going. Don’t stop to think about it too long; don’t show off. When he reaches the edge of the main top, Nicky reaches up with the other hand and grabs the main topmast shrouds. After that, it’s just a matter of getting high enough to swing himself around the main topmast shrouds and step onto the main top. 

When he’s sitting on the top, one arm still holding fast to the topmast shroud, he looks down forty feet to the deck, where Pritchard is grinning at him.

“Will this one do?” he yells, tapping his finger on the deadeye.

“Yeah, that’ll do!” 

Pritchard’s laugh carries on the wind, as does Joe’s, “We’re all terribly impressed.”

The climb back down is less terrifying, though not much faster, and Nicky is glad when he can feel the rail under his feet and drop to the deck. Idleness on a ship is not the norm, so by the time Nicky is off the rigging, everyone is back at their assigned tasks, but Pritchard spares him a smile and a nod, conceding the victory. Nicky joins Joe at the rail.

Joe turns his head into the wind to get his hair out of his eyes, then grins at Nicky. 

“Did you have fun?”

“You know? I did.”

Softer, pitched so only they can hear, Joe says, “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Every day that’s true. How is it that I never remember how much more beautiful you are when your heart is so full of joy it shines from your eyes?"

Nicky wants to hug him, wants to kiss every inch of his face.

“You would have been content to go by land, it would have been nice, and we’d have been together. But this, right here? This is why we’re going by ship instead. So I could see one of my favorites of all the smiles you have.”

"Thank you,” Nicky says as if that could ever come close to conveying what’s in his heart. Then, “You have a favorite smile of mine?”

“Nicolò, I have made an exhaustive study of your smiles.”

  
The day they expect to enter the Straits dawns steely gray and dismal. If the master’s calculations are correct, they’ll pass Gibraltar in the early evening. There’s a break in open hostilities between the nations who want to control these waters, but it’s a new peace, and who knows how long it will last. Even with the official agreement between governments, Nicky knows that even mortal memories can be very, very long. In particular, the crew is worried about privateers who might see the treaty as a threat to their income and have decided to try their hand at piracy. 

Not long before noon, the wind kicks up, and the clouds start to break apart. Nicky has one hand in the rigging and is leaning over the rail to take in the view. Here and there a patch of sea is lit up and sparkling, and the glimpses of sail scattered all around are a reminder their little convoy is not alone in these waters. 

Not far from Nicky, at the rail, Joe rests on his elbows and takes in the view. For days, they’ve been watching land creep closer in on either side of them, but only here does it hit home that the land to port is Africa while the land to starboard is Spain. They’ve made this trip before on other ships, in other centuries, but this part is always impressive.

Because it’s a pastime that never grows old, Nicky takes the opportunity while Joe’s attention is elsewhere to look at him. Whatever's on his mind, Joe is smiling just a little. Nicky’s got his own catalog of Joe’s smiles, but his favorite is always changing. Today it’s this one if only for the way it makes his lower lip look particularly full. That lip has been one of Nicky’s favorite things to kiss for seven hundred years, and he can’t imagine that the enjoyment will ever fade. 

Nicky takes a spot at the rail just beside Joe. “Where have you gone?” he asks.

“Hm?” Joe’s still staring out at the water, but Nicky’s sure that’s not what he’s seeing.

“You’ve gone somewhere in your head, care to take me with you?”

“Always.” Joe grins for a second before turning serious. “Do you think we’ll find him?”

The dreams had started a year and a half ago. In the aftermath of the first few, they’d pulled the blanket over their heads and spent three days in bed being grateful their deaths had been quick, and that they’d had each other. They’d dreamed of the women before finding them, of course, but usually not their deaths. This time the dreams had been nothing but death and hunger and defeat for months. 

It wouldn’t be strictly correct to say the dreams have gotten better lately, but the death is less frequent. Pain replaced hunger, and despair replaced defeat. Together they’re so heavy that some nights Nicky wakes from a dream to find he can barely breathe.

“I do. Eventually. Or we’ll find Andromache, and the three of us will find him together.”

Joe sighs. “He won’t thank us.”

“No. I don’t believe he will.” For Nicky and Joe, this immortality means lifetimes together; their greatest fear is the day one of them has to wake up and go on alone. This man is living that hell already, and learning that it will last for centuries won’t be a gift.

The wind blows a gap into the clouds above them, and Joe squints against the light on the water. Nicky can see the little laugh lines around his eyes. They’re so lucky, and they never forget it.

Days of sun and sea air have put light streaks in Joe’s hair, soft glints of chestnut mingled in with the darker brown and black. This is the longest it's been for decades. They’ve tended to shorter styles for a while, enjoying a bit of freedom from the hassle of long hair, but several months ago, Joe had decided he was ready for a change. Since then, Nicky’s had the pleasure of watching the springy mass become more and more unruly. Joe’s hair, untamed, is one of Nicky’s great weaknesses. 

Joe turns, giving Nicky a smile that speaks of compassion for this stranger in their dreams, and love for Nicky, and gratitude more than anything else. While he’s facing Nicky, the wind is coming just the right angle to blow a stray bit of hair across Joe’s face. He hooks it behind his ear and opens his mouth to say something. Before the words come out, that same bit of hair blows free again and covers his eyes. It happens twice more, and by the time Joe finally gives up, they’re both laughing, and whatever Joe was going to say is gone, at least for the moment.

“Let's go,” Nicky says. 

Joe’s mouth curls in a half-smile, and he pushes away from the rail, expecting to head back to their berth or maybe take the master up on his offer of some sanctuary in the great cabin. His eyes go wide as Nicky grasps the mainmast shroud and steps up onto the railing like he had that first day. Nicky winks at him and starts to climb. 

Centuries of war and death and life and love have left Joe with no need to prove himself to anyone. He could go to the mast itself where the master had the crew rig a ladder for use by curious but inexperienced passengers. Joe could go straight up and through the lubber's hole in the middle of the main top, and he’d likely even beat Nicky there. 

The easy way up is a choice Joe could make, but he’d seen the gleam in Joe’s eye just after Nicky winked at him, so it’s no surprise to hear Joe just below him on the shrouds. One at a time, they climb the futtocks and bring themselves up, over, and around to end up standing on the main top. Nicky goes first, and when he looks down, he can see Joe laying back into the climb, keeping his body out of the way of his feet and knees. 

“You remembered after all,” he says when Joe swings around the topmast shrouds. 

“Of course, I did. We were on that ship for years, Nicky; I picked up a few things.”

“Naturally. I never suspected you might take the ladder up.” Nicky wouldn’t be such a little shit if he didn’t know how much Joe loves it.

“Are we in the way of someone’s watch shift?”

“I talked to Pritchard; all he said was to be down by three bells in the afternoon watch.” 

“In that case, why have you brought me to the main top, my love?"

“First, of course, there is a beautiful view. Truly beyond compare.”

Joe smirks. “Of course.”

“Also, though, there is the construction. It's not an especially large top, some are large enough to be fitted with guns for battle.”

“Nicky, why are you explaining a fighting top to me as if we haven't both been stationed on one during a fight?”

“In those battles, did we ever notice that the way the sails are rigged and the platform's width, when taken in combination with the height from the deck, makes it hard to see what someone in the top might be doing?”

Joe’s eyes glint. “You know, Nicolò, I don’t think we did.” 

The ideal way to arrange themselves seems to be side by side, shoulder to shoulder, with one facing the ship's bow and one facing the stern. In this position, Nicky can kiss Joe just by turning his head to the side. It’s been days since they’ve had a proper kiss, and Joe seems content to take his time. Licking his way into Joe’s mouth, Nicky tastes the salt of the sea air on his lips and sighs. 

When Joe pulls back, breaking the kiss, Nicky leans to the side just enough to be able to kiss Joe just under the hinge of his jaw. There’s a spot a little bit lower where Nicky can feel Joe’s pulse, and he runs his tongue over it once or twice before sucking a kiss there as well.

Joe pulls back further.

“Where are you going?” Nicky asks, and even to his ears, his voice sounds thick and needy.

“Nowhere, my heart,” Joe says, pressing his shoulder to Nicky’s again, "but we have to slow down, or I’ll be heading back down those shrouds trying to hide a mast of my own.”

Nicky drops his forehead to Joe’s shoulder and groans. “How is it possible I’m in love with you?”

Joe laughs, and it sings along Nicky’s veins. 

“What if we could solve that problem before we climb down?” Nicky kisses the side of Joe’s neck.

“Nicky.” Somehow Joe makes it a question and a warning and a plea all at once. 

Nosing at the spot just behind Joe’s ear, burying his face in Joe’s hair, Nicky says, “Yusuf,” 

With Joe facing the stern, the front of his body is the most hidden from view of those on deck. They’ve lucked out; no one is in the other two tops for the moment, the current watch is busy setting everything to rights in the event they see action this evening. 

With the hand not holding the shrouds, Nicky reaches down and undoes one of the buttons holding up the flap at the front of Joe’s trousers. Joe gasps.

“Nicky,” and this time, it’s all warning.

“Shh. All your fussing is wasting time.” Nicky stands straight, scanning the decks below them and looking like nothing so much as a man of adventure taking in an unparalleled view of the world. At the same time, he finds where the flap as fallen open and slides his hand into the opening. 

He could start slow, rub gently and build the sensation, but instead, he wraps his hand around as much of Joe’s cock as he can reach and squeezes.

Joe grunts and grabs at Nicky’s shoulder with his free hand.

There’s some digging to do; Joe’s shirt is long, and between Nicky’s hand and the hot skin of Joe’s cock is a lot more bunched up fabric than he’d expected to find. 

“In Paris, we’re going to find a room with a door that locks. And once we are behind that door, I am going to take this shirt off and stuff this particular bit of fabric into your mouth.” After a few seconds, Nicky finally gets past the fabric and feels all that gorgeous heat against his hand. 

“You’ll need to keep it in your mouth, Joe, because after I have stripped the rest of your clothes from you—“ Leaning slightly toward Joe gives Nicky the reach he needs to stretch his hand out and stroke over Joe’s balls, cradling them in his grip— “I’m going to put my mouth right here so I can lick them, and suck them into my mouth, one at a time.”

Joe’s jaw is clenched so tight, Nicky can see the muscles flexing at his temples. He’s huffing breaths like a bull, but he’s not making a move to stop Nicky.

“Maybe, I will kiss this spot right there,” Nicky curls his hand so that he can stroke one finger over the spot just behind Joe’s balls. “The skin is so sensitive here, and so soft. I love kissing it.” He shifts to cup them again, hefting them slightly and running his fingers over the skin. “I’m going to worship them until you are hoarse from all the noises you are making behind that gag.”

His hips jerking forward, Joe grunts through his teeth.

Nicky shifts his grip so that he’s encircled Joe’s cock, fully hard now and leaking onto his hand. “It’s nice when you get wet like this, especially when there is nothing else to ease the way. Are you so wet because it’s been days since your cock was last touched? Or is it that I’m touching you right out in the open that has you dripping down my fingers?”

Joe’s head whips around, and he meets Nicky’s eyes with a frown.

Nicky laughs, “Not the second option then. Someday, my Yusuf, you'll come back around to that exhibitionist streak you had in the fourteen hundreds. We'll scandalize entire cities.” They won’t, because they’re never sure which city is going to respond by stoning them, and they’d rather not deal with awkward questions about why the bodies are gone before a grave is dug. Still, it’s fun to imagine. “It must be because you’ve needed this so much.”

He nearly sprains his wrist getting it at the right angle to swipe his thumb over the head of Joe’s cock, but it’s worth it to see Joe’s eyes flutter closed for a second. He won’t last much longer, not after so many days of restraint, but that doesn’t mean Nicky can’t enjoy the time left. “You’re soaking my fingers, that’s how much you need this.” 

With his hand now slick, Nicky starts stroking. “Just from listening to you breathe, I know how very badly you want to come for me, Joe.” Speeding up as much as he can without drawing attention to his movements, Nicky watches Joe try to keep his eyes open and his head up. “I want it just as badly, my love. I want to feel you make a mess of my hand so I can lick it clean while you watch.”

Something in that mental picture combines just right with the punishing speed Nicky has built up, and Nicky can see the moment Joe starts to go over the edge. He strokes his hand up one last time, stopping at the top to cup his palm over the head of Joe’s cock just in time. After that is only the liquid heat of Joe spilling into Nicky’s hand. As soon as the pulsing stops, Nicky pulls his hand out of Joe’s trousers, and, true to his word, starts licking it clean. 

Joe fumbles to put his trousers to rights before saying, “Turn around.” Once they’ve swapped directions, it’s Nicky’s turn to pretend that he’s looking out at the majesty of nature. Joe thumbs open Nicky’s trousers, and before Nicky can stop to think, Joe’s slipping his fist down over Nicky’s cock. Not too tight, just the perfect barely-there friction Nicky loves so much.

If they were alone in a room, this is where Joe would draw things out until Nicky was a senseless, begging mess. They don’t have that luxury today, so instead, Joe starts with a quick stroke, and he doesn’t let up even once. Nicky's words had been teasing himself as much as he’d been teasing Joe, and now those same images are playing in Nicky's head. 

Clinging to the rigging, vacantly staring into the distance, Nicky thinks about spending hours tasting Joe, licking and sucking him. As he’s picturing Joe’s hands fisted in the sheets, Nicky sucks the last of Joe’s come from the webbing between his forefinger and thumb. The taste of it, the fantasy of that as-yet-unseen room in Paris, and the dry, fast slip of Joe’s hand over his cock is more than enough to make Nicky moan, long and low, and feel his cock jerk in Joe’s grip as he comes.

Then, because Joe is beautifully filthy, he brings his hand to Nicky’s mouth. “Yes,” Nicky says, and licks his spend off his lover’s skin.

When everything is buttoned up and adjusted, and they’ve checked to make sure no one is waiting below them with a pistol, Joe plants a perfect punctuation mark of a kiss on Nicky’s mouth. Nicky feels their stolen moment fade away into a happy memory.

“Only for you would I make that climb and take this much risk just to sneak a proper kiss.”

“You’re thinking about the kiss? Now I’m worried about my technique.”

Joe shakes his head with a quiet huff. “Surely, the Lord has sent you to vex me."

Nicky bursts out laughing. “You sound exactly like her!” 

“It’s true, though.” Joe grins at him.

Still gripping the shrouds, Nicky is beaming back at Joe when he remembers the first part of Signora Boffardi’s favorite expression.

Joe turns to look out at the water, the coasts of Spain and Morocco to either side and the flock of ships around them. They’re in a beam of sunlight, and those lighter bits of Joe’s hair are the color of burnt honey. This high up, the wind is stronger, and three or four longer curls are whipping across Joe’s face. 

Pushing the hair back, Joe sees Nicky staring at him. “Nicky?”

“To me, you are the rest as well.”

“Sent to vex you?”

Nicky smiles. “No.” 

Another curl has worked its way free and has fallen across Joe’s eyes. With one finger, Nicky lifts it, stroking it with his thumb. There’s a touch of reverence to the action, and Nicky knows that’s only appropriate. 

“Husband,” Nicky says. He tucks the curl back behind Joe’s ear. “Love of my life.”

They’ve spent eight hundred years using other words to refer to each other. Among people who couldn’t know the nature of their relationship, they would use more casual terms. My close friend. My business partner. My comrade. When speaking with those who understood and embraced their love, they knew labels didn’t matter. My love. My heart. My Joe. In intimate moments, when they were alone with each other, there was a separate lexicon. Lover. Sweetheart. Soulmate. Each others’ names said with sweetest agony and gasps of pleasure.

‘Husband,’ has somehow never been a word they used for each other. To be sure, some of that is owed to their upbringings, the idea that a husband is part of a sanctified union that isn’t available to them. But also, Nicky thinks, because the longer they live, the more transient the institutions of the world seem to be. When a couple is married by an officiant in a place of worship, the world agrees they’re husband and wife. Ten years later, if the officiant and every person who attended is dead from a plague, the church burned down with all the records in it, will the world still agree they’re husband and wife?

There’s an argument that the couple is pledging to love each other in the sight of their God. Still, if God needed proof of fidelity and love, Nicky thinks their last seven hundred years should be plenty. How could centuries of being each other’s entire world not be as valid as the promise of a couple marrying for a political alliance who hadn’t even met before the wedding?

Signora Boffardi and her husband had married for love, and they’d married late. They had met at a book seller’s stall, and he’d courted her for more than a year. She needed time to be sure, she said, because she was only going to do this once. Her parents had died by then, and she’d lived alone, but secure and happy. With no external force urging her to marry, when she said yes to Davide, it had been a carefully deliberated choice. 

She doesn’t call him her husband because the church says she can or made a promise to call him that. He’s her husband because she chose him, and every time she says it, it’s a celebration of that choice. That, Nicky thinks, is a prize worth having.

He and Yusuf had faced each other on that field, They had killed each other over and over, and at the end, they could have walked away. Indeed, they considered it once or twice during the early days. Still, each time they'd looked at each other, at the one person who could understand their lives, they'd made a choice to stay together a while longer. And when, at last, they’d found their way to love, they’d chosen to stay together as long as the world would allow.

“Husband,” he says again, celebrating all their choices so long ago.

“Yes,” Joe says, and Nicky can see his eyelashes, wet and clumped together when he blinks. 

Their shoulders are still touching, so it’s no effort at all for Nicky to take Joe’s hand and rub his thumb across Joe’s knuckles. Joe smiles, as if he’s been craving Nicky’s touch, and his head sags.

Turning, Nicky rests his forehead against Joe’s sun-streaked curls, breathes him in again, and kisses his head again and again. For almost a full minute, neither of them moves, then Nicky slides his head down so that his mouth is just below Joe’s ear, and kisses him there, just because he loves that spot.

“Husband,” Joe says into Nicky’s ear. “Love of my life.” 

Below them, one of the crew rings the time. Two bells. They’ll need to go down soon. Tonight, if all goes to plan, they’ll pass through the Straits and into the Atlantic. They have a few minutes, though. Time enough for Nicky to think about what power those words gain from seven hundred years of dying and coming back to life. Time enough for him to know that centuries have only made those words more true for the two of them.

Nicky reaches up to brush another rogue curl out of Joe’s face. He tugs it and smiles when Joe meets his eyes. “Come on, love of my life. I’ll race you to the deck."


	4. 4 - Granada - 1570

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nico strokes Yusuf’s head with his hand, trying to let his touch be a balm, but there’s nothing he can truly do. Nothing any of them can do when this happens. Not for themselves, and not for each other. In a strange twist of fate, sometimes having another one of their band with you when it happens makes it worse. 

  
“When we were in Baghdad, a few years ago, you bought some codexes, yes? From that bookbinder near the bathhouse.”

“The one with the blue sign?”

“No, the one with the—“

“With the tiles around the door.”

“Yes.”

“I did. I bought four.” There has been a paper manufacturing industry in and around Baghdad for hundreds of years. The ease with which Nico can find blank codexes there is one of the reasons he loves the city as much as he does.

“Are there still pages that have no words?” Yusuf’s head is in Nico’s lap, the two of them listening to the summer rain on the roof and watching it soak the fields. They’d made love earlier, the kind of slow, loud, drawn-out agony they save for when they’re alone and far from prying ears and eyes. The humid air has kept the sweat on their skin from drying completely. Nico can see it beading up on Yusuf’s temples, can feel it under his fingers as he brushes Yusuf’s hair back from his face.

“I’m not quite through the third, so there are many pages left.” He uses his thumb to coax one of those curls around his finger, feeling the gentle hug and tension as he lets it spring free. “Do you need paper?”

“I need—“ Yusuf stops with his mouth open, his eyebrows furrowed as if he can’t quite find the next word he wants. Nico lets the silence stretch out. They're in no hurry, and the words will come when they come. He buries his hand in Yusuf's hair again just to feel the soft coils against his skin. Later, when Nico brushes a fly from his face, he'll still smell Yusuf's soap on his hand, bergamot, and sandalwood.

When Yusuf speaks again, he's completely changed tack. "When I woke this morning, I could smell sesame seeds roasting.”

“I was going to use the oil to fry some bread with our evening meal.” 

Perhaps it was the weather, but Nico had woken that morning wanting to do quiet things. Make some bread, read a book, enjoy an unhurried fuck. It was a day for lazy pleasures, at least for them. There would be work to do soon, people to help during difficult, terrible times, but today they could have this.

"My mother. Those sweet crackers I got in Damascus? That was her favorite thing to eat. ”

“I remember.” He smiles, thinking of Yusuf working his way through the city, tasting one version after another. Then, one otherwise ordinary day, he finally found some that made him groan with pleasure, sigh, and nod as if to say this was precisely what he’d been searching for. Nico hadn’t thought to ask what ideal Yusuf was hunting, or why this particular food, he’d just been happy to see that smile. Later that night, when Nico had kissed him, Yusuf’s lips tasted of sesame seeds and almond oil. 

"I always knew when she was making them. The house would fill with the smell of cooking sesame seeds. We would get excited because we knew that later we might be able to sneak one. It was the oils in the seeds, that's what I smelled then. And this morning." Nico makes a little noise as if to say _yes, I'm listening_. He cards his fingers through Yusuf's hair over and over.

"She would— The others were all older than me. They’d be off working or doing chores. Sometimes I’d get to tag along anyway, but I was too small to be much help for a long time. Usually, they’d convince her to keep me at home, and she would bring me into the kitchen with her."

He sighs, and there’s a little smile, as if he’s back in that house, watching his siblings and cousins walk out the door, and knowing he would have the whole day with his mother. “If I asked, if I promised to do what she told me to and follow the steps, she would let me help.” Yusuf catches Nico’s finger, pulling his hand down and kissing the pad of Nico’s finger. For a moment, Nico thinks his love for this man might be too large for his heart. He strokes the back of his thumb over Yusuf’s cheek and across his temple, then goes back to running his fingers through Yusuf’s hair.

"I was more a nuisance than anything, I'm sure, but I love the memories of those days. Crushing the seeds between my fingernails and feeling the oil on my skin." Another pause, another breath. "She would tell me stories, fables sometimes. She would sing. Her favorite was about a woman bickering with her lover and getting the last word in. This morning, when the smell of sesame seeds came through the window, I let my mind wander back, I wanted to. I tried. I— "

Gently, Nico curls his fingers and lets the blunt edges of his nails scratch over Yusuf’s scalp. Not hard, just enough to remind Yusuf he’s not alone.

“I was going to listen to her in my memories while that smell was in the air. Remember being back in that kitchen with her, her hands guiding mine and showing me how to roll them out.”

“It’s a beautiful memory.”

“I tried to think of her singing, remember the sound filling the room, but there wasn’t anything there.” 

Nico’s heart drops, because he knows what’s coming next, they’ve all been through it before, but the first time it happens with someone or something so important you thought you could never forget, it's like a knife in the heart. He stills his hand, resting his palm against Yusuf’s head. 

“Yusuf.”

"I can’t hear my mother’s voice anymore, Nico. It’s been so long since I last tried to remember it, and now it’s gone.” 

Nico strokes Yusuf’s head with his hand, trying to let his touch be a balm, but there’s nothing he can truly do. Nothing any of them can do when this happens. Not for themselves, and not for each other. In a strange twist of fate, sometimes having another one of their band with you when it happens makes it worse. 

There you are, feeling the empty place in your heart where something precious used to live. You want to turn to this other person who knows your pain, but you see them and think about the things they’ve forgotten, and you know this will happen again. And again and again. 

Your mind becomes a ship of Theseus. With every memory that fades and is replaced by another, will they become less and less the men they believe themselves to be? One day Nico and Yusuf both will finally forget the last memory of their lives before their first deaths. When that happens, even if they’ve filled the spaces with wonderful, beautiful new memories, will they grieve themselves all over again? 

Yusuf is quiet for a long time; the rise and fall of his chest the only movement Nico can see. Over and over, Nico runs his fingers through Yusuf’s hair, feeling the subtle bumps of the curls and the way they cling to each other. It’s so easy for this to be a riot of tangles. Even then, Nico loves it, loves picking each knot apart carefully, so as not to pull against Yusuf’s scalp. For now, he just maps the shape of Yusuf’s head under his fingers and feels the slip of each strand against his skin.

“The first time we died, it'd been years since I’d seen her. I know it’s useless, but I wonder now. If I’d been a more devoted son, if I’d visited her instead of sitting in bathhouses in Damascus, would I still have her voice? I could have taken you with me. After Jerusalem. After we stopped trying to kill each other, you could have come home with me and met her, and maybe. Maybe then, I’d still be able to hear her in my head. I can hear a voice singing the words, but I know it’s wrong.” 

Yusuf isn’t shaking, so it isn’t until he looks down and sees a tear roll over the bridge of Yusuf’s nose that Nico knows he’s been weeping. There’s a dark spot on Nico’s tunic where each one has fallen. 

“I hope she would have welcomed you. How could a mother not love someone who makes their baby so happy?”

Nico would have been honored, would have treasured the chance to know a woman who could raise a man like his beloved. He doesn’t say that, not right now, it would only twist the knife in the wound. “You want to write down the songs. Is that right? And the stories?”

“Everything. I want to write down everything I can still remember about my mother and my sisters. My family." 

“You’re a good son, Yusuf.”

“How is that possible if I can’t even remember the sound of her saying my name?” There’s a hitch in his breath. 

“I think, my heart, that there may have never before been a son who is five hundred years old and still living. Which would make you the best five hundred-year-old son in history.” He curls his fingers until he’s gently gripping Yusuf’s hair.

“And the worst,” Yusuf says.

Nico gives a little tug, feeling the hair go taut and seeing Yusuf’s head jerk back almost imperceptibly. Yusuf gives him a sentimental choked-up laugh in reply.

“If something is particularly precious,” Nico says, "the words to a song or the way her eyes looked when she smiled, you write it down, but also tell me. I will tell you about my father and the way his laugh would fill an entire room. And we will remember for each other.”

Yusuf rolls his head a little to look up at Nico. “That will help?”

“Is there anything in the world I would not do better if I were doing it for you? I'd promise anything and keep that promise gladly if it would make you happy. So if you ask me to remember something for you, how could I forget it? If you want, I’ll tell them to you sometimes so that you can be sure.”

“I'd like that. Sometimes.”

“Yes. Men like us, if we start to live in the past, there is so much that it will swallow us whole. So, sometimes.” He starts up the gentle scratch of his nails against Yusuf’s scalp again, and Yusuf sighs, heavy and long, but not as sad as he had been.

Nico’s nose catches a hint of bergamot, and he smiles. He craves this, some days. He’ll look over and see Yusuf riding next to him or across the room from him, and his fingers will itch with the urge to hold Yusuf’s hair in his hands and drag him close. Right now, this connection is a comfort to them both.

After a few more minutes, he shifts himself up from under Yusuf. “Right. Into the kitchen.”

“What?”

“I saw the face you made in Damascus when you found the one you like. If you teach me to make them, then I can be the reason you make that face.”

“Nico, you’re already the reason I make most of my faces.”

“Well, I want to add this one, too. Come on; there are still sesame seeds left from this morning.”

In the small kitchen, Yusuf does his best to remember the correct proportions of flour, sugar, and water. He remembers his mother’s hands holding the spoon and scooping out some starter, and he tries to use that same amount. 

“Really,” he says, "we should have a tannur for this.” They’ll end up cooking today’s batch in the small oven here in the kitchen. They will taste wonderful, Nico is sure of it, but if making one of the clay ovens outside is what will make the experience right for Yusuf, then that’s what they’ll do.

“I think we can easily do that.” He looks out the window at the rain. “Next time.” 

Yusuf shrugs, they’re only immortal, they can’t control the weather. “Yes. Next time.”

“Tell me how to make one.”

As he’s mixing and kneading, Yusuf explains the construction and the process for making the oven. Nico can hear his voice growing calmer, losing some of that panicked edge from earlier. 

When the dough is kneaded, Yusuf sprinkles the outside with water. “Now, it has to rest.”

“For how long?”

“There’s a reason my mother made these in the morning,” Yusuf is smiling at him again, and Nico feels like he’s letting out a breath he didn’t even know he’d been holding. 

“Then we’ll wait. I’m not in a hurry. Neither are you. I’m sure we’ll find something to do with the time.” He doesn’t mean it to sound suggestive, but Yusuf smiles, loops his arms around Nico’s waist, and leans in to kiss him. 

“As long as I’m with you.”

Grinning against Yusuf’s mouth, Nico says, “Always.”

He leans back into the circle of Yusuf’s arms, looking up at his lover’s face. “Even after all our travels, all the beautiful things we’ve seen, this is still my favorite view.” Yusuf smiles at him. “You always will be. This mouth—” he traces his finger over Yusuf’s lower lip “—your eyes. Even that mess of flour you’ve got in your hair.”

Yusuf laughs and shakes his head, sending flour everywhere. Nico can’t resist the urge to smooth the rest of it away and tuck some of Yusuf’s more wayward curls back into place. He kisses Yusuf again. 

“I need to get something, wait for me here?”

Yusuf nods. “Right here."

The last blank codex sits tucked next to the full ones. Nico plucks it from the shelf and grabs a reed pen, the inkpot, and some linen to blot the ink.

Back in the kitchen, he drags a small rug over to the wall opposite the open door so he can still see the rain outside. He drops down, sitting with his back against the wall, waving one arm to beckon Yusuf to join him. 

Yusuf tucks himself into the vee of Nico’s legs, his back to Nico’s chest.

Setting the ink and reed on the floor to one side, Nico wraps one arm around Yusuf’s chest and says, “Lean against me.” Yusuf sighs and relaxes against him. Unable to resist, Nico buries his nose in the back of Yusuf’s neck and breathes him in. Bergamot and sandalwood.

“Here,” he says, handing Yusuf the blank codex. He noses his way into the cloud of hair at the back of Yusuf’s head and kisses him. Then he brushes Yusuf's hair up to kiss the nape of his neck. Hooking his chin over Yusuf's shoulder, Nico presses his lips against the hinge of Yusuf’s jaw, unable to resist dropping a kiss right there. 

“Will you start by writing the memory you told me about today? Cooking with her?”

Yusuf nods. 

“When that codex is full,” Nico says, "we can get you another one. And another. However many you need. Yes? For now, I want to hear more about her.”

Dropping his head back, Yusuf turns to kiss Nico’s cheek. “I love you.”

Nico turns and meets his lips for another kiss, sweet and affectionate, and laced with centuries of adoration.

“And I love you. Now, be a good son; introduce me to your mother.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the song, I'm putting poetry to music. The bit in question is [this](http://brucespoems.blogspot.com/2017/09/i-have-lover-hafsa-bint-hamdun.html), though the first version I read was a little less exuberant with the punctuation, and the last line had been translated as "And I throw back, 'Do you know of a better woman?'" Which is pretty baller.
> 
> Who wants to make cookies? The first time I had these it was a specific version from a 10th century Baghdadi cookbook. The recipe for which can be found on page 124 [here](https://books.google.com/books?id=dUC-e-l3XM8C&pg=PA403&lpg=PA403&dq=aqras+fatit&source=bl&ots=I-GL4CaiRJ&sig=ACfU3U1tn3jgIJa9IphJI8iLR8IHjML2_Q&hl=en&sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwizyKOsuKHrAhXwuFkKHUv6D3MQ6AEwEHoECAgQAQ#v=onepage&q=knead%20lightly&f=false). Though there are tons of modern versions of it around as well, including some made with orange blossom water that I had at a party and then pretended were all gone but in reality I'd stuck four of them in my coat pocket because they were so good I wanted to have them with tea the next day. (I'm kind of a dick sometimes.)
> 
> In conclusion: I need to go call my mom.


	5. 5 - Mongolia - 1265

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today isn’t the first time he’s seen his love laid bare in the afternoon sun, it’s not the first time they’ve bathed together either, but it still takes Yusuf’s breath away. Is he meant to get accustomed to this? Is this supposed to become commonplace? 
> 
> How?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all of you for how amazing and supportive you've been as things go slightly to shit in the real world. Having these two and the stories in my head about them, along with the kind and encouraging words from you all, has made the week not the black hole it could have been, and I cannot possibly express how much it means to me.
> 
> Thank you also to this tiny town in Inner Mongolia for having gotten to up to 30 celsius (that's 86F) a couple of days in early August, thereby making the weather at least remotely plausible. And thank you to that same tiny town for being so gorgeous it took my breath away when I first saw pictures, and for being the most perfect place I could have dreamed of to set this chapter.

It feels like they’ve been riding for a year. Then again, this is Mongolia. They might have been riding for a year. At the very least, it’s been the better part of three weeks. They’d started with a larger group, and gradually it’s dwindled as riders split off toward different destinations. Now it’s only the two of them.  
  
Nicolò has dismounted to his right, his face cast down to keep the worst of the afternoon sun from his eyes. Every piece of clothing they're wearing is the same nondescript brown now, the color of the dirt they’ve been kicking up. They’re into the grasslands now, but most of this trip has been through drier areas. 

Yusuf’s got grit in his teeth, layers of dirt behind his ears, and when Nicolò sneezed this morning, it came out like clay. This is the longest Yusuf’s hair has ever been, and every bit of it, from the crown of his head to below his shoulders, is thick with sweat and dust. Even the way Nicolò is patting his horse’s neck is making him disappear into a dust cloud.

The other days of this journey, they’ve stopped just before dark, built a fire, eaten, and gone to sleep. Since they broke from their last traveling companions just under a week ago, they’ve had a little more freedom. Now that they’re alone, sleep has been on their little pile of blankets, wrapped around each other, too tired even to fuck. They’ll make up for it when they get to Chandu. 

Today though, the weather has been more than warm; it’s been hot. When the two of them found themselves following a shallow stream just before midday, it had seemed like fate. They’d found a relatively flat spot and stopped for the day.

“I’ll start a fire,” Nicolò says. 

“I’ll take care of the rest.”

Yusuf unloads the horses and lays out their food. But the time has the blankets unrolled, Nicolò has a busy little fire going, carefully coaxed to life by gently breathing onto bits of shaved wood and scraps of wool. 

Yusuf can’t help but smile at him, sometimes the odd domesticity of their lives strikes him anew, and it’s a marvel every time. “Let me get some water.” 

Nicolò smiles back and hands him the small cooking pot. It takes a couple of trips to get the filled waterskins and the pot back from the edge of the stream, but it’s not far. He starts to fiddle with the three-legged frame they use to hang the cooking pot and keep it from sitting directly in the coals.

“Let me. Let me do that,” Nicolò’s laughing at him, but Yusuf is so in love with that laugh he takes no offense. “You start getting those boots off. We’ll rinse the clothes too. If they’re not dry by morning, we can put on enough to ride and fly the rest behind us like banners.” It’s a ridiculous visual, and now they’re both laughing.

Today isn’t the first time he’s seen his love laid bare in the afternoon sun, it’s not the first time they’ve bathed together either, but it still takes Yusuf’s breath away. Is he meant to get accustomed to this? Is this supposed to become commonplace? 

How? Even should they be together for another hundred years or more, the dip of Nicolò’s lower back will still be a wonder. The dusting of darker hair over the pale skin of his legs will always make Yusuf’s hands itch to touch them, stroke his way to Nicolò’s knees and spread them wide. Who could look at the curve where Nicolò’s neck meets his shoulder and not be awed by it, even if it were the five hundredth time?

The only thing that will ever be commonplace about seeing this beautiful man, naked and unashamed, will be the prayer of gratitude Yusuf sends to the heavens for letting him be the one who gets to behold the sight.

“What?”

“Nothing.” Truly. Nothing but the way your forearms are darker than the rest of your body. Nothing but the way I want to kiss from your ankles to your neck. Nothing but the pleasure promised by your cock, so thick even while it’s soft. Nothing, except that I can feel it against my tongue even now.

“Nothing?” Nicolò’s eyebrow has gone up. He’s looking just below Yusuf’s belly, where his cock is starting to take an interest in the proceedings.

Balling up the piece of fabric that had been wrapped around their bread when they started this trip, Yusuf throws it at his head.

Laughing, they chase each other into the stream. It’s barely more than knee-deep, but it’s crystal clear, and the stream bed has a few rocks. They pick their way to a couple of stones in the middle of the stream, sit, and let the water run past them. Rinsing their clothes comes first. They won’t, strictly speaking, be clean, but they’ll have the worst of the dust and smell washed away. Once the clothes are rinsed, they're laid over some larger clumps of grass along the side of the stream. The clothes dealt with, Yusuf and Nicolò pass a scrap of wool back and forth between themselves, using it to work the dirt loose from forehead to feet.

The only place on Nicolò that’s even slightly escaped the dirt is his hair. It’s so fine that the dust seems to get no purchase on it. His hair is still filthy, of course, because everything’s filthy by now. Nicolò lays back into the water enough to get his head wet. He’s arched his neck slightly, to try and keep his face dry, and it makes Yusuf’s mouth go slack. He wants more than anything to kiss that little patch of skin sticking out of the water. He wonders what it would taste like, now that it’s mostly clean.

It tastes, it turns out, almost like nothing at all. There’s no trace of sweat or dirt left, and the only thing Yusuf’s tongue notices is how cool the water is, and how he can feel the texture of Nicolò’s skin as he licks it. 

“You’re a menace,” Nicolò says, even though he won’t hear anything Yusuf says in reply. He works his fingers against his scalp, rinsing away as much sweat and oil as he can. Yusuf isn’t washing his hair in the stream, so he takes a moment to enjoy the sight of his beloved stretched out just below the surface like a kind of water spirit.

Once their bodies are as clean as they’re going to get, the two of them step back up onto the bank. It’s a hot afternoon, but Yusuf can still feel the skin on his arms pebble for a moment as his skin dries. 

“Sit,” Nicolò says, pointing to a spot at the edge of the stream. Yusuf drops into the grass at the edge of the water and watches Nicolò walk back to the fire, taking in the breadth of his shoulders and the curve of his hips. Nearly two years of riding back and forth across Mongolia had given them both thigh muscles they hadn’t had when they met. Later, Yusuf decided he was going to trace the line of that muscle with his mouth.

The walk back after Nicolò has plucked the cooking pot from the fire, is just as nice. 

“It’s not hot, but it’s warm, lean your head back.” Yusuf does as he’s told, and the sheer tactile pleasure of warm water running over his head, soaking his hair, and flowing down his back makes him shudder and moan. “Yes, I thought you might like that.” Nicolò is grinning at him.

Yusuf closes his eyes and lets the moment just happen. The sun is hot on his face, his body feels clean for the first time in weeks, and his lover’s hands are in his hair. He can smell the campfire and the horses and… lime?

“Is it such a special occasion?”

Nicolò laughs. “It’s a special occasion every single day I wake up in your arms. Here, hold this.” He passes Yusuf the little piece of felted wool they usually keep wrapped around the one remaining block of soap they still have from their last trip through Damascus. It smells like olive oil and lime, and they’ve been carefully rationing it. 

When Nicolò first bought it, the block was big enough that he couldn’t wrap two hands around it. Now they’re down to the last bits. Two, perhaps three more uses, and it’ll be gone. Nicolò can scoff, but Yusuf knows an indulgence when he sees one. As always, he’s awed to be the object of this kind of care and attention.

The motion of the Nicolò working the soap into his hair makes Yusuf’s head shift back and forth. He keeps his neck loose and enjoys the idea of his body being subject to Nicolò’s whims.

“Poor Yusuf.” He drops the soap onto the wool and sinks both hands into Yusuf’s hair. “These curls hold on to every bit of dirt, don’t they?”

Yusuf feels strong, slender fingers digging into his scalp, and he moans again. His “Nico,” draws out into a groan and a sigh. 

“You’re in good hands, my love. Don’t worry.” Nicolò’s broad palms cradle Yusuf’s head as he works his fingers back and back, rubbing in firm circles just behind Yusuf’s ears. It makes him gasp now just the way it does when Nicolò does it when they kiss.

As the movement of Nicolò’s fingers goes on and on, Yusuf’s mind begins to go calm and quiet. There are times when they join together, and the unending tide of pleasure makes him feel untethered. As though his body is below him and he's become just wave after wave of joy and lust. Now though, it's like he's floating in his skin, keenly aware of each touch of sun or air against him, feeling every point of contact all at once. He lets it overwhelm him, lost to sensation, and hungry for more of Nicolò's touch.

“Is this good?”

“Yes,” Yusuf says, feeling the shape of the word in his mouth.

Nicolò picks up the soap again, working it into the length of Yusuf’s hair, all the way to the tips. There’s half a whine in the back of Yusuf’s throat as he realizes he can’t feel Nicolò’s hands on him anymore now that they’re not touching his scalp. He reaches one arm back and curls his hand around Nicolò’s leg, anchoring himself. 

Satisfied with his work, Nicolò drapes the length of Yusuf’s wet, soapy hair over his shoulder and rubs with all of his fingers right at the base of Yusuf’s skull. He hadn’t realized how much tension he’d been carrying there until it was gone. If he’d felt overwhelmed before, now he feels like he’s flying. Everywhere Nicolò touches him feels hot, and the ghosts of his fingers prickle at Yusuf’s scalp.

Another long pass from Yusuf’s forehead back along his head, those clever fingers plucking every nerve. All the dirt must be worked loose by now, so Nicolò seems to be doing this only for Yusuf’s pleasure, only to hear him sigh and gasp. 

“Later tonight, I’m going to bury my nose right here,” he rubs the spot behind Yusuf’s right ear. “And I’m going to get drunk on the smell of you. Limes and olive oil and woodsmoke. After that, I might bury my nose in your other curls, and see if you make the same noises you’re making now.”

Yusuf turns his head just far enough that he can kiss the inside of Nicolò’s arm. 

“Head back again.” And again, Yusuf does as he’s told. “I'm glad you're not this biddable every day, my heart, but I love that I can make you feel this way,” Nicolò says. He picks up the cooking pot again and pours the second half of the warm water over Yusuf’s hair. Yusuf can feel the grit sluicing down his back as the water rinses it away.

Nicolò drops to a crouch and cups Yusuf’s chin. “Are you still with me?”

Yusuf blinks his eyes open and nods. When Nicolò stands and holds out his hand, Yusuf allows himself to be pulled to his feet and tries not to sway into Nicolò’s body. 

Back at the fire, Nicolò waves him over to the pile of blankets. “I’ll be right there.” He puts some more water in the pot, adds some dried meat and millet, then hooks the pot back onto the holder before joining Yusuf. They lay facing each other, heads pillowed on their arms. Their bodies are still naked, clean, and warm in the afternoon heat. Nicolò’s hair is almost dry, but Yusuf’s will be wet for hours yet. 

“How do you feel? Good?” Nicolò says, tucking a curl behind Yusuf’s ear. Yusuf nods. “I’m glad. I love you.”

“And I love you.” He's still feeling the sensation of being safe and cared for in Nicolò's hands, it sings along his nerves, in his veins.

“Come here now.” Nicolò rolls on his back and holds his arms out so Yusuf can drape himself across Nicolò’s chest. He buries his nose in the curve of Nicolò’s neck and feels the body under him sigh. 

As gently as he can, Nicolò pulls his fingers through Yusuf’s hair, spreading it so the sun and air can reach it. He’s trying to get it dry before dusk so Yusuf won’t be cold in the night. 

Their food isn't spectacular, but they eat it clothed only in each other's gazes, under the endless blue sky.

The faintest orange fingers of sunset have appeared by the time Yusuf finishes scooping the last of his food into his mouth and licking his fingers clean. Nicolò rinses the pot in the stream and fills it with water again, putting it back over the fire. 

They talk for a while about nothing in particular. The dreams are back, but they’re mostly glimpses of lives much like theirs. Riding, battling, loving. Neither of them knows the cause for the dreams; they're as big a mystery as their inability to die.

"Thank you for cooking."

Nicolò smiles. "Thank you for enjoying it. Did you get enough to eat? There is still--"

"More than enough, Nicolò. I'm pleasantly stuffed. You?"

The evening shadows are long now, and it's hard to make out the exact expression on Nicolò's face, but Yusuf can feel the path of his gaze like a trail of hot wax on his skin.

Nicolò, it seems, is still hungry.

His hand is warm as he cups Yusuf's face, and the drag of his thumb over Yusuf's lower lip is a question and answer all at once.

"Yes," Yusuf says. "Always."

Nicolò grins and lays back, making an offering of himself. Sprawled across the blanket, knees wide, he is nothing but temptation. He's up on one elbow, the other arm stretched out, beckoning Yusuf closer as if Yusuf would want to be anywhere else.

There's a thick layer of grass under the blanket, cushioning his knees as Yusuf bends low, resting his head against the dip of Nicolò's hip and breathing him in. Nicolò's hand is stroking his head, nearly petting him, and that point of contact keeps Yusuf warm even as the last of the sunset finally fades. He pushes Nicolò's knee out, widening the splay of his hips, and exposing the crease along the side of his groin. Yusuf maps that line with his mouth, drawing a river along it with the drag of his nose and charting the rolling hills with his kisses.

Turning his head, Yusuf plants open-mouthed, sucking kisses at the base of Nicolò's cock, dipping his chin to lick a hot stripe up the side of his balls. There's a helpless growl, all praise, and frustration. Yusuf can feel Nicolò's fingers twining in his hair, urging him to a spot where Nicolò can rut the head of his cock against Yusuf's mouth, begging entrance.

Somehow, more than a century after the first time he tasted Nicolò like this, Yusuf is still in awe of how perfect it feels. He looks up the length of Nicolò's body. When Nicolò is looking back at him, Yusuf lays the flat of his tongue against Nicolò's still mostly-soft cock and sucks. There's a spark in the eye contact, and Nicolò bucks up into Yusuf's mouth.

"My love. My love is so good to me; I am lost to you." He clenches his eyes shut for a second, rolling his hips again. "I'm going to fill every corner of you." Fingers tighten in Yusuf's hair, the cock in his mouth swells and thickens, and his bliss comes out as a sigh. "You would let me, wouldn't you? You would let me stretch your lips, fuck your perfect mouth, mark you with my love, and watch you swallow it down." With one hand still fisted in Yusuf's hair, the other strokes down over his face and cups the front of Yusuf's neck. "You would let me fuck you so deep I could feel myself here."

Somehow, over months and months of very little privacy, Yusuf has forgotten just how uninhibited Nicolò's language can get. He loves it, loves the thrill of knowing he drives Nicolò to this, and the safety of knowing that if Nicolò is dripping filth in his ear, they are well and truly alone.

He hums agreement, and Nicolò hisses at the vibration. Yusuf's hair has fallen in his face again; Nicolò strokes his neck one last time before pushing the hair back from Yusuf's face again and looking in his eyes. Grip tightening, Nicolò holds his head still and fucks into his mouth, curling his hips up again and again. "I'm watching myself slide over your lips; you are so beautiful like this, taking me. I want to see-- open your mouth."

Yusuf drops his mouth open, and now Nicolò is riding the length of Yusuf's tongue as he keeps pushing in over and over. In his youth, perhaps, Yusuf would have been ashamed at the sounds they make, the obscene, wet pop every time Nicolò's cock hits the back of Yusuf's mouth. He knows better now. He knows that nothing he has with this man, nothing they make together, could ever be profane.

Nicolò pulls back, just the head of his cock on Yusuf's tongue. "I think... On your knees now."

When the shifting of bodies is over, Yusuf is on his hands and knees, his legs tight together, and Nicolò is pushing into the hot, sweat-slick place where his thighs meet. Nicolò has gathered up all of Yusuf's hair, wrapping it around one hand, and the pull of it has put a curve in Yusuf's back. His hips are canted up, and his neck is stretched long. At this moment, he feels entirely subject to Nicolò's will, and it makes his cock throb where it hangs, heavy and full, below his belly.

The wetness dripping from Nicolò's cock eases the way even more, and soon he's able to go hard and fast enough that each thrust finishes with a ringing slap of skin on skin.

After the first frenzy, Nicolò curls himself over Yusuf's body and lays a disarmingly tender kiss at the top of his spine. He takes a deep breath in through his nose and moans it back out. The hand not in Yusuf's hair wraps tightly around his chest, and when Nicolò straightens up, Yusuf goes with him.

"There it is," Nicolò says. "Perfect." Both of his arms wrap around Yusuf's chest, his face buried in Yusuf's hair.

Yusuf moans, reaching back around to cup the back of Nicolò's head. "Woodsmoke?" he asks.

"Yes, and limes. I can barely smell the olive oil over the limes." Every push of his cock drags across the back of Yusuf's balls, and it's the sweetest ache, somehow too much and not enough at once. "If we had olive oil, I would pour it over your cock. You would be almost too slick, and even fucking my hand would be a tease."

The vision of Nicolò's hand around him makes Yusuf's cock jerk. "Please. Please." He's not even sure which language he's begging in; he only knows that he needs Nicolò to touch him more than he needs to breathe.

"Again," Nicolò demands. One of his hands has come up to cup the front of Yusuf's neck, the gentle pressure enough to have Yusuf drop his head back onto Nicolò's shoulder. "Again."

"Please. Your hand. Please touch me. Hold my cock and let me fuck your hand. Please!"

Nicolò kisses the spot behind Yusuf's left ear, just as he'd said he would, hours ago in the stream. "I like when you beg me with good manners."

Against his back, Yusuf can feel a laugh rumble through Nicolò's chest; A slapping thrust from Nicolò's hips accompanies it. The two sensations drive the breath from Yusuf in a whine.

Nicolò's hand is in front of Yusuf's mouth. "Lick," he says, and Yusuf can only comply. Slick and hot, Nicolò's hand finally wraps around him, and Yusuf wants to cry with how good it feels.

"Go on then, my lover who smells of lime and fire. Fuck my hand."

Yusuf moans, high and needy, and thrusts into Nicolò's grip until he sees stars even when his eyes are closed.

"Perfect, so good for me. Even chasing your own pleasure, you're still riding me." Every time Yusuf thrusts forward, his thighs tighten, and Nicolò must feel it like a clenching fuck of Yusuf's skin around him.

He kisses the side of Yusuf's neck and speaks, low and husky with want, just beside Yusuf's ear. "My favorite part of stroking you is licking your mess from my hand after you finish."

Somehow that confession is what snaps the last bit of Yusuf's composure. Fast, mindless snaps of his hips, four times, perhaps five, certainly neither of them is counting. With a shout that seems to carry forever in the night, he spills himself into Nicolò's hand.

Yusuf wants to sag, boneless, onto the blanket, but Nicolò's arm is still around his chest, and Nicolò's thick, heavy cock is still fucking between his thighs. Instead, he rests a little against Nicolò and lets his body move, lazy and sated, in slow, endless waves.

The sound Nicolò makes as he licks Yusuf's come from his hand is somewhere between a purr and whine and beyond that, the slick sucking noise of him cleaning Yusuf from each and every finger.

"Let me feel you, Nicolò. Please."

Hand in his mouth, nose in Yusuf's hair, Nicolò sobs. Between his legs, Yusuf can feel the pulse of Nicolò's cock and the hot, slick spread of his release.

When his hips stop twitching forward in little aftershocks, Nicolò shudders against Yusuf's back. Gracelessly, they manage to stretch out on the blankets, letting the cool of the night dry the sweat from their skin. Rolling to face him, Yusuf drops a lazy kiss on Nicolò's shoulder, a happy hum the only reply.

They take a moment to get their breath back, and to be stunned anew by the sheer number of stars over their heads. Nicolò kisses Yusuf's dead before moving to the fire to dip the wool scrap from earlier into the cooking pot.

"Open," he says once he's back to their little nest of blankets. Yusuf drops his knees wide and feels the warmth of the cloth wiping him clean. Nicolò rinses the cloth in water poured out of one of the skins before soaking it again in the hot water.

Yusuf takes it from him and draws it across the nape of Nicolò's neck, down each arm and across his back, wiping away the dried sweat. He cleans between Nicolò's legs, rinsing any last traces of their love from the thatch of hair above his cock. Now and then, he adds a kiss to the clean skin, a little reminder of his love.

Again, Nicolò rinses the cloth; again, he dips it in the warm water. With aching tenderness, he washes those same places on Yusuf. When Nicolò sweeps the hair from Yusuf's neck to wipe away the sweat, he kisses just along the hairline and sighs, content. Yusuf almost can't breathe for how much he loves this man.

He hadn't seen the truth before, not when it was his turn, hadn't recognized the sweeping strokes for what they were until it was Nicolò holding the cloth.

The rise and fall of the land around them is silver in the starlight, the fire cracks and pops as it warms them, and Yusuf is happy to let the fire see their joy, to fill the land with their boundless love, to have the stars witness their benediction.

Tomorrow they will roll up the blankets, stamp out the last of the fire, and ride off, once again intent on their destination. A city again, large and loud, and bursting with possibility.


	6. +1  - Anywhere. Nowhere.  - 2010

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “All the things? You don’t know what I might be dreaming up in here.”
> 
> Nicky laughs, hooking on his sword. “For nine hundred years, I’ve been learning about what you can dream up. If you surprise me with something new, I’ll do it anyway, just for the novelty.”
> 
> “Are you saying I’m predictable? Boring?”
> 
> There’s a blaze behind Nicky’s eyes, and Joe can see his pupils dilate slightly as his breath speeds up. 
> 
> “No. Never. Just because I know the tide will come in, doesn't mean I can predict what the waves will do when they hit the shore.”
> 
> Joe kisses him again, because really, what the hell else is he supposed to do after that?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been blown away at the kindness and enthusiastic welcome this fandom has shown me. We're at the end of this fic, but not the end of me writing about this amazing group of characters. Thank you all for kudos and comments (I've treasured every single one, and now that this is done I can go answer the few I missed). I'm at a very different point in my real life than I was when I started this story, a more difficult, challenging point, and it's not an exaggeration to say that your feedback has made me smile on days when nothing else would. I can't thank you all enough, truly, for all the joy you've sent my way.
> 
> This bit was supposed to be a sweet, quick wrap-up. So thaaaaaat did not go as expected.

It could be anywhere. It used to be that places looked like themselves, anymore it seems like places are all trying to look like each other.

So it’s a city. It’s hot, and there aren’t enough shelters for all the people here. Today the shelters are tents, but they could just as easily be trailers, or dilapidated buildings, or featureless towers of apartments that look like multi-story despair.

Over decades, centuries, millennia doing this work like this, they've learned the ‘where' seldom matters as much as the 'who.’ The other enduring lesson is that they can try to fix the ‘what,’ but fighting the ‘why’ is always a losing prospect. Empires rise and fall, but the ‘why’ will always be someone needing to feel powerful by making other people suffer. 

They can’t change human nature, but they can try to cut down on the collateral damage.

“We’re leaving in twenty,” Andy says. She’s pulled the tent flap back, waiting for the thumbs-up from Joe before repeating it to Booker in the next tent over.

It’s been a while since they did a job like this. Mostly the focus has been on where the problems start. They’ve been taking down organized crime lords, traffickers of all varieties, anyone who has turned the oppression of others into a commodity. It's rewarding, ding about excising the decay closer to the root. It’s a fantasy to think that by doing that, they’ve made things better in the long run. Still, if they looked at the percentage of time these jobs truly made a difference, they’d never get out of bed again. 

This job, though, is back to basics: get boots on the ground, help individual victims any way possible. When they go back to dealing with the rot at the top of the stream, these are the faces they’ll remember. This is the reason they don’t stop.

Nicky is methodically checking straps and buckles and switches on their equipment. The sight of his fingers, long and elegant, checking the attachment points for their swords is enough to make Joe want to tie the tent shut and tell Andy they’ll be out in two hours.

As if he can feel Joe’s eyes on him, Nicky looks up. He puffs away a chunk of hair that’s fallen over one eye, then grins. “I know that look, and I would love to do that, too, but we have some things to do first. Let’s go to work,” he says, walking across the tent to cup Joe’s chin in his hand. “Afterwards, we can do all the things you’re imagining.”

The kiss Nicky presses to Joe's mouth is a promise, an anchoring point. 

“All the things? You don’t know what I might be dreaming up in here.”

Nicky laughs, hooking on his sword. “For nine hundred years, I’ve been learning about what you can dream up. If you surprise me with something new, I’ll do it anyway, just for the novelty.”

“Are you saying I’m predictable? Boring?”

There’s a blaze behind Nicky’s eyes, and Joe can see his pupils dilate slightly as his breath speeds up. “No. Never. Just because I know the tide will come in, doesn't mean I can predict what the waves will do when they hit the shore.”

Joe kisses him again, because really, what the hell else is he supposed to do after that?

After the twentieth or thirtieth job like this, a physical checklist isn’t necessary; Joe just ticks the boxes in his head. Basic first aid equipment? Check. Extra containers for potable water? Check. Search and rescue equipment? Check. More flashlights than any four people need? Check. Candy, small toys, and games? Check. Three decks of cards? Check.

“Take a look, did I miss anything?” Joe gestures to the open packs at his feet, and the piles of things that will go in them. It never hurts to have Nicky do a visual check, to put a second set of eyes on things. 

“Throw in a few more of those little—“ Nicky holds his hand up, fingers a few centimeters apart. “The really bouncy ones.”

Joe has to smile. “For you or the kids?”

Nicky shrugs, then kisses him. He crouches and starts loading one of the packs.

The cards are for Booker. He’s figured out that card tricks will distract the locals long enough for them to get some answers if needed, or long enough for them to forget they live in the suck for a few minutes. 

The candy and toys? That’s because the ‘who’ always, infuriatingly, tragically, includes children. Little girls carried out of collapsed mines or bright-eyed boys waiting while their parents stand in line for days for basic human needs. 

A few more little rubber balls make it into one of the piles. Another one of those small containers as well, Joe thinks, stuffing it all into the second pack. He’s pretty sure they hold some kind of messy, colorful clay. They’ve found that kind of thing especially appropriate for kids who have retreated into themselves during their ordeal and just want to play quietly. 

Joe zips the last pack closed. He used to believe the kids didn't understand the depth of their situation; now, he thinks they've just learned that they'll drown if they don’t have some joy. They chase each other down streets filled with rubble in the aftermath of bombings or manage to find the one ball in the whole place that’s still got air in it so they can kick it back and forth. They make a world for themselves because that’s what kids do. It’s something they’ll unlearn as they get older, until one day they're adults, looking at the kids around them and wondering if they were ever that happy in such a mess. 

They were. They could be again if they had even a little ledge of hope to grip. 

Joe grabs Nicky’s arm and pulls him in for one last kiss here in the quiet of the tent, a press of foreheads together and a promise to stay as safe as they can, then they’re on their way.

The last few weeks have been quiet, a little time to recharge, but now they’re back in the thick of it. Today the agency they’re working with is responsible for getting people into the relative safety of this city from somewhere that is, somehow, inexplicably, worse. The four of them are on guard duty for both the trip out and the trip back.

That’s the job. Try to bring some hope to the adults, try to let the kids keep being kids for as long as possible, and try to keep them alive. 

On the drive to the pick-up point, they refuse to let Booker ride shotgun, because this day isn’t going to be made any better by letting him be in charge of the radio, such as it is. The last time he picked the music, they all went into battle with the sounds of Scandinavian thrash-metal ringing in their ears. Joe is still convinced that’s what led to Andy getting shot in the head, not that she wasn’t paying attention, just because she’d have done anything to get rid of the lingering noise.

The truck has seen better days, but Nicky manages to find some music that satisfies everyone. 

An hour into the drive, Nicky reaches one hand back between the seats. Joe leans forward far enough to thread their fingers together. As an added benefit, by leaning forward, he’s getting more of the air coming in Nicky’s window. This is the longest Joe’s hair has been since… he has to think about it. Since the last 17th century. And before that, Mongolia. It’s below his shoulders, and it’s hanging heavy on his neck. He’s wishing he’d put his hair up instead of just pulling it back. The extra airflow cools every sweaty bit of the nape of his neck. 

He squeezes Nicky’s hand just to feel Nicky squeeze back. They stay like that for the rest of the trip.

There are, as always, endless hours of bureaucracy to deal with at the other end. In the open lot in front of the building where they’re to meet the contact, fifteen or twenty kids are playing. They're all between the ages of six and--if Joe had to guess--thirteen. Booker’s volunteered to escort their primary contact and deal with the local authorities, should they catch wind of the evacuation. Partly he’s on this duty because his glower tends to motivate people to get things done faster. Mostly, though, it’s that even after hundreds of years, he still has a hard time being around children. 

More than once, someone’s implied that Booker doesn’t like kids, but they all know better. That’s the problem, Booker adores them, but in every one of their faces he sees a shadow of his sons, and that nerve is still raw, exposed. He protects himself any way he can.

Andy’s sitting on the back of the truck, keeping watch around them. Someone who didn’t know them, who didn’t know their lives, might argue that her behavior is edging close to hyper-vigilance. Joe knows their history, knows what kinds of things they’ve come up against in the past. He thinks she’s precisely as vigilant as she needs to be.

Crouched in the dirt, Nicky unzips one of the packs and pulls out a plastic capsule the size of a tennis ball. The kids are paying some attention, but not much. They were a curiosity for the first few minutes; now they’re just becoming part of the landscape for all but the most inquisitive children. He pulls off the lid and fishes out two small balls. 

Joe is lounging against the side of the truck, just watching. When Nicky looks up at him and grins, Joe feels a skip in his heart. Even now. Even after all this time. One smile from this man is enough to make him catch his breath. Joe beams at him.

Nicky takes one of the balls and bounces it against the ground, hard. When it shoots up by about five meters, Nicky suddenly has many more sets of eyes on him than he did a second ago.

The ball bounces off toward some tents. “It’s getting away! Hurry!” Nicky says. Five or six of the most ambitious kids go tearing off after it.

He does it again, aiming the next ball in the opposite direction; high-pitched shrieks of delight ring out as kids race to get to the ball first.

“We’re lucky you’re not on lookout,” Andy says. “You haven’t noticed anything but Nicky for the last five minutes. If I were anyone else, I could have stabbed both of you, stolen the truck, and be halfway to the border by now.”

“Yeah, but you’re not anyone else, Boss. You’re the sister who’s had my back for seven hundred years.”

Andy always seems so surprised when one of them reminds her that they’re not just a team, not just an army, they're family. 

“Go back to eye-fucking Nicky while he teaches those kids to play fetch.”

“Whatever you say.” Joe can’t help shooting her a grin. She’s not looking at him, she’s scanning the perimeter of their little area, but she’s smiling all the same.

Nicky pulls out two more of the balls and hands them to the children who’ve been the best behaved. Standing, he swats the dirt off the knees of his pants and looks over at Joe and Andy.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Joe says.

“Then why are you staring at me?”

Joe steps over to him and puts his hands on Nicky’s shoulders. “I’m watching my husband be delightful with small children, and that’s hard to turn away from. I may be immortal, but I’m only human.”

Smiling, Nicky brushes one of Joe’s curls back into place. He opens his mouth to speak but is distracted by something over Joe’s shoulder. When he follows Nicky’s gaze, Joe can see three children still sitting off to the side, not chasing after any of the balls. Two look to be siblings, a boy, and a girl. The third, another girl, but younger than the other two, is drawing in the dirt with her fingers.

Joe reaches into the pack and pulls out three of the containers of clay. He motions with his head, beckoning Nicky to follow.

“Andromache, do you—“

“Go away and stop distracting me,” she says, trying her best to sound gruff.

“You got it, Boss,” Nicky says.

When they’re perhaps two meters from the children, Nicky drops to sit on the ground. Joe takes the spot next to him, opening one of the containers. They’re not speaking, not looking at the kids, or making a fuss. If none of the three children come to see what’s happening in the next few minutes, perhaps Joe will try getting their attention. For now, he leaves it up to the natural curiosity youth. He upends the container, trying to knock the contents out into one hand.

Oh. Not clay. 

He makes a small, startled noise when a thick, oozing glob drips out of the container; it’s aggressively bright green. The sound catches the kids’ attention, and the older of the two girls comes over to crouch next to Joe. When the blob is all out of the container, Joe lets it drip back from one hand to the other. It’s fascinating in the way only genuinely gross things can be.

Of course, the children will love this; the only thing better than making noise is making a mess. Nicky has cracked open another one of the containers. His glob appears to be purple.

“Is it slime?” the girl asks.

“I think it might be. Do you like slime?”

She nods.

“My name is Joe.”

“I’m Maria. My brother Arik is over there.” The boy has started creeping closer to Nicky.

“I’m pleased to meet you, Maria. Would you like this?”

Her eyes are enormous as she holds out one hand. Joe lets it drip from his hand into hers, and his heart warms as her entire face lights up. 

“Maria?” Nicky asks. She turns a curious face in his direction. “Would your brother like one too?” Less than a meter away, Arik nods frantically. “Hold out your hand, Arik. How high do you think you can catch it from?” Nicky raises the hand that's holding the glop well over his head and starts to tilt it. Arik cups both hands together and holds them out, waiting for the obnoxiously purple blob to hit them.

Pointing at Nicky, Maria says, “He’s not your brother,”

Joe smiles and shakes his head. “No, he’s my Nicolò.” She nods, as though for her, just like for Joe, that explains it all. 

Maria seems to be coming out of her shell. “Is that another one?” Joe nods and passes the third container to Nicky.

When he opens it, it’s full of the same substance as the other two—this one’s slightly thicker, mottled purple, blue, and a silvery-black streaked with glitter. “Your friend is welcome to come over and play this one,” Nicky says. “Only if she wants to, though. If she doesn’t, you can take it to her. It’s hers whatever she decides.” Maria looks like she's not sure how to handle an adult who gives them options rather than taking them away. 

Joe’s heart overflows for a moment. He knows, of course he does, how gentle Nicky can be. He’s seen this side of Nicky more anyone. Still, it’s one thing to be the focus of all that generosity and kindness. It’s another thing entirely to watch someone else feel that radiance directed their way for the first time. “I love you,” he says because he can.

“I love you.”

The second girl has come over, and Maria nudges her. “You can tell them your name.”

Her name is Sophia, and she doesn’t make eye contact with either one of them. They don’t chase her eyes, trying to force it; instead, they follow her lead. Nicky slides the container of glitter-ridden slime toward Sophia. While she’s pulling it out and inspecting it, Joe digs in their packs and pulls out a silver emergency blanket. He shakes it out and spreads it on the ground in front of Nicky. 

“How flat do you think it will get, Maria?”

For five minutes, the kids do nothing but dribble their slime onto the silver film, push it around, and pick it back up to start all over. Joe and Nicky just watch, enjoying the companionable silence. Unexpectedly, it’s Sophia who speaks next. 

“You have hair like a princess,” she says. Because she’s not up from her slime, Joe and Nicky glance at each other, trying to determine which one of them she means. 

“She’s right, you do,” Maria says. Helpfully, she’s staring straight at Joe.

“Thank you. I have to brush it a lot. Just like Sophia does, I bet.” He points to the long, thick braid going down Sophia’s back. 

“I hate that,” she says. 

“So do I.” Joe smiles at her. He reaches back and tugs the elastic out of his hair, letting it fall in curtains around his face. 

“Can I touch it?” Sophia asks.

“Sure.” Joe sits still while she pats him and tugs at the curls. She pulls them straight then watches as they spring back. When she’s finished, Sophia returns to patting her slime into a rough circle on the Mylar. 

“Do you like those colors, Sophia?” Nicky asks.

“Yes. Do you like his hair?”

“I like all of him. But yes, I am very fond of his hair.”

“Is he your princess?”

Looking over, Joe can see Nicky staring back, a millennium of love in his eyes. “He’s my everything.”

Ducking forward, Joe kisses him, quick and sweet.

When he sits back up, Sophia is pulling the disc of slime off the foil. Because hers is a little thicker than the other two, it’s holding its shape, but only barely.

“I’m seven,” Sophia says, apropos of nothing. She takes the disc of slime and holds it up over Joe’s head.

He catches a glimpse of movement out of the corner of his eye and looks up to see Andy looking at him, one hand stretched out, with a concerned look on her face. 

“You okay, Andy?”

She drops her hand. “Yeah. Never mind. I’m good.” Eyes back up, smile barely hidden, she returns to scanning the area for threats.

Joe knows what’s about to happen, and he could stop it, but why? These children have been through a lot in the last six months, and while the tent city is marginally better than where they’ve come from, it’s still not going to be easy. Let them have a little fun, he’ll worry about the clean-up later.

“Now you have a hat,” Sophia says, draping the slime delicately over the crown of his head.

When Joe turns to look, Nicky’s eyes are enormous. 

“Is it my color?” Joe asks.

“Without question. Are you—“

He can see the concern on Nicky’s face, but it’s just hair, just a toy. Joe would rather take a bullet than upset these kids right now. 

The slight chill oozes through his hair and hits his scalp, surprising him. Sophia is watching with wide, curious eyes as it sags down over Joe’s head, so he doesn't move to wipe it away.

They hear approaching footsteps and Booker’s voice. “Loading up.”

“Four minutes,” Andy barks, all business again.

“We have to go now,” Nicky says to the kids. “If you put it back in the container, it will stay wet, and you can play with it more."

Sophia reaches out and grabs handfuls of the slime sitting on the surface of Joe’s hair. He tries to drag some more out with his fingers but mostly succeeds in getting it spreading it around more. 

Nicky, because he’s delightful, always, hands the kids another emergency blanket, and passes Sophia the last of the unopened containers of goop. “I think this is blue, but it still has glitter.”

She takes it. “Thank you.” She reaches out and pats Nicky’s shoulder once before the three of them run off to find their parents, Joe hopes.

Grinning, Nicky gestures to Joe’s head. “I like your hat.” Joe grins at him. “How does it feel?"

“It feels absolutely, disgusting, Nicolò, but I wasn’t going to tell them that.”

“Of course, you wouldn’t.” He steps closer, kissing Joe. “You‘re a wonderful man.”

“Joe! Nicky! In the truck!”

Reaching for his baseball cap, Joe puts it on over the mess. “I’ll deal with it later.”

  
In the truck, Andy glances at him. “Glitter?”

“I’ll shower at the safe house or rinse it out tonight.” She’s still staring at him. “It’ll wash out.”

“You sure about that,” Booker asks.

“Why would someone make a toy for children that doesn’t wash out when they make a mess?”

“The world is a cruel and unjust place, my brother.”

“Book’s just mad because one of the balls hit the ground hard and bounced up into his dick.”

“Thanks, Andy.” Booker snorts. "It’s nice to know you we entrust you with all of our secrets.”

She smiles at Joe. It’s a joke that works because each and every time it truly mattered, Andy had done anything, had died, to keep them, and their secrets, safe. She always will, they know it.

  
It’s well into the next day before they roll up to the nearest safe house. Their trip back to the tent city had been busier than they might have liked. More than once, Nicky had put a bullet into the tire of an oncoming truck, sending it spinning to the side. Joe had been on retaliation duty, emptying entire clips into windshields and motorcycles. Once the team realized the sentries at the gate had been convinced to keep them there, Joe dealt with them as well.

A few well-timed explosions from Booker and they were through the gate. They'd stayed on lookout long after everything quieted down. You just never knew, they said.

Joe lets everyone else shower first because he knows he’s going to be a while. He helps Nicky towel his hair dry while Andy takes her turn. 

Joe drops his voice so only Nicky can hear. “I’m not sorry neither of us had children; I wouldn’t want to go through what Booker does every day, but I’m not embarrassed to admit I love seeing you with them. There’s a lot of kid left in you, even after .” He brushes Nicky’s hair off his forehead. “It makes your eyes shine.”

"Their happiness seems simple; it seems uncomplicated. But turning a war zone into a playground is not an easy task.” He tugs on one of Joe’s curls, letting it bounce back. “We’re good at similar things.”

“Joy in adversity?”

“Finding happiness in a world that grows more complex every day. For them, it’s their friends, their families.” He kisses Joe’s forehead. “For me, too.”

The water shuts off, and Andy steps out, wrapping herself in a towel. “Get a room, you two,” she says as she walks past them and out the door. “But wash the glitter out first!”

  
Three showers later, Joe is ready to concede defeat. In the time between when he’d put his baseball cap back on and when they’d gotten to the safe house, the slime has attracted every spare bit of dust and dirt nearby, and it's dried. He manages to get some out, most of the gunk closest to his scalp, but the rest refuses to budge. 

Defeated, Joe goes into their room to find Nicky.

“When we were in St. Petersburg, there was that artist who liked to use me as his model, do you remember?” 

Nicky nods. “I remember enjoying the view while you posed.”

“Of course you did."

Nicky shrugs, palms up. He can’t be blamed, the shrug seems to say.

“When he asked me to sit for his study of Apollo, he—“

“He left your eyes the same, your body, every perfect inch of you. But in the painting, your hair was blond.” It was hundreds of years ago, but Nicky is still livid.

“You were so angry,” Joe says, taking Nicky’s hand. “You yelled at him for five minutes about artistic integrity. I don’t think you even realized that by the end, you weren’t speaking Russian anymore.”

“Anger is a universal language, Yusuf.”

Joe holds out the clippers. “I wish you didn’t have to be the one to do this. But I know you couldn’t—“

Nicky kisses him. “I couldn’t let anyone else do it.”

It’s just hair. Joe's cut it and grown it back more times than he can count, and he’ll do it again in the future. Never this short, though, he’s almost sure of it. At least not by choice.

Really, to the degree that he’s upset, it’s not for himself. It’s for Nicky. “I know. I know you love—“

Nicky’s long fingers are cradling his head, palms against Joe’s cheeks. “You. I love you. I was angry at that artist because he thought making you blond was the only way you would be beautiful enough for Apollo. He’d been painting you for months, but he hadn’t seen you at all. Hair or no hair, blond or dark, I see the truth of you.” His kisses are insistent, a punctuation mark to his sincerity. Just as Joe feels Nicky’s tongue swipe across his own, Nicky pulls back. 

Foreheads resting together, Nicky looks straight into his eyes. "We were made to be with each other. I am yours, and you are mine, and you could never, will never, be anything but beautiful to me.” He holds out his hand, and Joe passes him the clippers.

Just once, and so fleeting Joe almost misses it, Nicky finds a curl that escaped the slime and wraps it around his finger, smoothing it with his thumb and finger as he bends to kiss the side of Joe’s neck. Standing, Nicky flicks the switch, and the buzz of the clippers fills their little bedroom.

Half a minute later, watching the first huge clump of his hair fall onto the towel they spread below his chair, Joe can’t bring himself to regret it. “It was worth it for their smiles.”

Nicky’s working his way back along the crown of Joe’s head. “They had fun. Probably they'll remember the princess with the glittery slime in his hair for many years.”

Joe catches Nicky's hand and kisses the inside of his wrist.

“Who makes something children are supposed to play with that can’t be washed out?”

“Sadists,” Nicky says.

“No, we’ve met sadists. Even they wouldn’t go that far to inflict pain.”

Nicky laughs and works through the mess above Joe’s right ear. 

“Do you know what I am looking forward to?” Nicky asks.

By now, Joe’s enjoying the feeling of the clippers going over his head. They got enough out of the roots that he’s been able to keep about a centimeter all over. It’s not much, but it will keep his head a little warmer. 

“What are you looking forward to?” 

He tilts Joe’s head forward to get the clippers down the full length of the back. “The time that it’s growing back out, I will be able to remember all the other times your hair was like that and how our lives were then. Even when you had less hair than this. Do you remember that time we left London and had to shave ourselves bald and burn all of our clothing to be sure we'd rid ourselves of—“ He shudders and doesn’t finish the sentence. “Even then, you were the most beautiful man I’d ever met. The same will be true this time."

It’s slow going in the back, but Nicky is patient, he always has been. 

“Even when it’s in that awkward phase, it’s going to hit in about six months?”

Nicky grins, meeting Joe’s eyes in the mirror. “The length where it’s so fluffy it’s like a cloud?” Joe nods. “When you wake up to find it’s flat on one side and sticking up on the other, I will remind you that it was like that in Sao Paolo. You would sit in that library and run your hands through it until it poked up between your fingers. Sometimes I would have to put my hands in my pockets to keep from touching it.”

“I can think of a few times when you didn’t bother stopping yourself,” Joe remembers Nicky dragging him into the dusty storage room in the back of that library. Nicky’s fingers were already sinking into his hair as the door slammed shut, locking the world outside. By the time Nicky had gotten desperate enough to drag Joe to that room, he was out of patience. “Your mouth,” he’d said.

Joe can remember the feeling of his knees hitting the floor and the way the fabric of Nicky’s trousers had rubbed against his cheek. Nicky’s hands wound into his hair and held him in place. He knelt there, Nicky’s cock in his mouth, Nicky’s voice in his ears, filthy and devoted.

" _I’ve wanted to do this for hours. You don’t know how you look. Impossible, beautiful man. I see your hands in your hair, and all I can think of is feeling it under my fingers._ ” He’d bucked forward, winding his fingers tighter into Yusuf's curls. _"I tried to stop thinking about holding you still while I took your mouth. I tried. Yusuf. Love, please. Ah, yes, like that!”_

He’d dragged the head of his cock over Joe’s lower lip after he came, whispered that he wanted to be able to taste it when they kissed later. 

“It’s true,” Nicky says, blinking his way out of the memory. He smiles. “Sometimes, I couldn't help myself.” He brushes his hand across Joe’s shoulders, sweeping a mess of glittery hanks of hair to the floor. “Maybe, when it’s a little longer than that, I will think about you getting flour in it when we were in that little house in Granada.”

“We were baking.” Joe’s laugh sounds bright and happy, even to his own ears. “I remember baking, but I’d forgotten about the flour.”

“If you’ve forgotten the flour, what other details are gone? Have you also forgotten the tree that grew next to the room where we slept?” There’s a whisper of mischief in Nicky’s voice, and Joe knows why. 

“I remember you dragging me out in the middle of the night. Your hands were in my hair as we kissed, in moonlight, and when you stroked me, your hand was slick and fast.” 

“Something woke me; I never remember exactly what. I saw the moon outside, and I knew that it had been far, far too long since I’d been fucked with only the stars over our heads.”

His hands are still so sure, trimming chunk after chunk of hair, but Joe can see the color in Nicky’s cheeks. 

“I’m glad I stopped to get the blanket, for your knees, if nothing else.”

“I confess, my heart,” Nicky’s voice sounds so bland, so everyday and ordinary, that Joe knows whatever he’s about to say is going to be incredibly dirty. “I was more concerned with stretching myself open fast enough to get your magnificent cock inside me before I grew too desperate and begged you to fuck my mouth instead. After that, I only remember how you filled me, how I hadn’t stretched quite enough, but it was still so good.” His tone is teasing. “How could I think about the dirt under my knees? Was I supposed to feel something other than your hands on my hips as you held me still, rocking up into me until I begged for your hand so I could come?”

“A fine question. Especially since you didn’t need my hand, after all.”

Nicky stops for a second, taken by the memory. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath through his nose.

“My love, my Nicolò. You're better at this game, I admit it, but I’ve been playing it with you for eight hundred years. I've learned a thing or two.”

There’s a sting as Nicky flicks his ear.

“I was grateful for the blanket.”

Joe smirks. “You were very grateful.”

The noise Nicky makes is somehow both a laugh and a snort. He puts some pressure on the side of Joe’s head. “Put your ear to your shoulder so I can make sure I get everything on this side. Thank you.” Beside his ear, Joe can hear the clippers trimming all the rogue hairs that had escaped the first pass.

“There was a time when it seemed like all your curls had streaks of gold from the sun,” Nicky says. “We were on that ship—“

“To Paris. I remember. I didn’t realize how light it had gotten until I walked past a store window in the city and saw myself.”

“You were lucky. I had to see it for weeks and not be able to touch you.”

Joe shakes his head as the last of the long, heavy strands fall away. “You found a way.” He can still feel the wind on his face, still see the deck so far below them and Nicky, beside him, like always.

Nicky nods. “I did, but I was cruel to myself, having just that taste of you but nothing more until we were in Le Havre.”

“You’d said you were going to gag me with my own shirt.”

“Even then, you were loud, my love.”

Joe tilts his head, ignoring Nicky’s irritated *tsk* as he does. “I wasn’t the only one.”

Nicky closes his eyes; he smiles, and Joe knows the image that must be drifting past in his mind. “I promised to worship you,” Nicky says.

Grabbing Nicky’s hand, Joe kisses his palm, kisses his fingertips. “You did. The sounds you made were in my ears for days. I’d be walking down the street, and I’d suddenly hear your mouth sucking me. I would have to stop until I could breathe again.” He lets go of Nicky’s wrist.

The clippers are still buzzing, so when Nicky bends close to speak quietly, right into his ear, Joe knows that no one else in the house will be able to hear. “I kept hearing the sound of the headboard slats as they cracked under my hands.” Joe swallows, and his throat has gone so dry he can hear the click of it as Nicky continues. “You said not to let go, and I was so good for you. Did you know that the part of the shirt you put in my mouth was the one you’d used to wipe yourself clean after I licked you until you came?” 

In fact, Joe had known that because this isn’t the first time they’ve revisited this memory, but he knows if he doesn’t answer, Nicky will keep talking.

“All the time you were opening me with your mouth, your tongue, every second your fingers were inside me, I was licking your come from the fabric and tasting you.”

Joe shifts in the chair, he’s been getting hard for the last few minutes, at least, and he’s uncomfortable, but it's still the sweet, bright kind of pain.

“I stayed quiet. I didn’t make a sound until I saw you opening yourself. After that, I couldn’t stop. I promised you anything if you would only let me feel you again.

“Nicolò.” It’s a growl, a warning Nicky doesn’t heed.

“How is it, my heart, that you were the one stretched open around a cock, but I was the one who got fucked?”

That night in Le Havre, Joe had pinned Nico’s wrists to the mattress hard enough that he could hear straw snapping. 

_“Hold them here.”_ He’d wrapped Nico’s hands around one of the remaining slats from the headboard. Joe had lost himself, had bitten at Nicky’s neck, his chest, dragged his teeth over Nicky’s nipples, and sucked his collar bone hard enough to leave a mark, if only for a second. When he sat up again, Nico’s cock shifted inside him, and Joe hissed as something exploded behind his eyes.

The first time Joe had seen a fireworks display in this modern age, he’d thought that was exactly how it felt to have Nicky’s cock hit just the right angle as it fucked into him. 

He’d set a punishing speed at first, chasing that explosion again, but before long, Joe had slowed down, savoring. He’d taken in the room, the tangle of sheets under Nico’s back, and the bed creaking as he ground himself onto Nico’s cock, honey-slow. When he finally slowed to stop, every fiber of Joe ached for his climax, but he held still, waiting. Nico had lasted less than a minute before he’d begun to beg. His muffled voice grew louder. He was shouting, pleading, promising; Joe could see it in Nico’s eyes even if he couldn’t make out the words.

They'd lost track of time; maybe it was the early dawn brightening the sky by the time Nico finally spilled inside him, and Joe collapsed onto his chest, maybe it was just the moon. Nico had wound his fingers in Joe’s hair, tilting his head up so they could kiss. 

They’d made it to Paris two days later, not long after Nicky’s voice came back.

  
“I liked that length. I liked the color. Maybe I’ll keep it that way once we get there.”

Nicky tilts Joe’s head, swiping the clippers over a spot behind Joe’s ear. “If you did that, I’d lose out on that point where it’s finally long enough for me to properly tuck it behind your ears. I love that.” He steps around in front of Joe, running the clippers along his hairline. “At that length, when you bend to kiss me, it falls around your face, and it feels like it’s hiding us. Like every kiss is a stolen one, and sweeter for it.”

“Secret kisses?”

“Private. Not secret.” Nicky brushes his hand over the top of Joe’s head, checking for any hairs that might have gotten a mind of their own and escaped the clippers. Little bits of hair float down from his head, and Joe can feel one land on his nose. Nicky’s finger brushes it away. 

“When we were in Chittagong, it was that long. And that time in Tripoli.”

“When we stayed with Andy in that house? Or when we had that private room?”

“The house, with Andy.”

Joe nods.

Nicky traces his thumb over Joe’s lower lip. “One afternoon, I’d been watching you draw for hours. You had charcoal on your fingers; you’d smudged some on your nose.” His smile is wistful. “It was early, less than two hundred years since we met. I knew that I desired you, we’d certainly wasted no time getting to that. Later, I knew that I loved you and that you loved me. But, I think that afternoon was the moment I first realized I would love you forever.”

Joe purses his lips, kissing the pad of Nicky’s thumb.

“I don’t remember where Andy was, but we were alone all day in that tiny house. You sat at the table and lost yourself in figures and shapes. I lost myself in watching you. There was. Being with you brought me stillness. Poets wrote about searing passion, and we had that too, but no one had told me about the peacefulness love could bring. None of the poets wrote about quiet afternoons broken only by one of us rising to bring the other something to eat. Even if they had, even if I’d known, it would still have been a revelation.” He tips Joe’s head up so they’re looking at each other. “Before that, I’d only ever known that feeling when I first became a priest, but never like I felt it with you. I didn’t know what the world would bring us, or for how long, but I knew I would see every step of it with you beside me.”

“We’d already decided—“

“Yes, but at first, it felt like fate deciding for us. Like we just agreed to go along. In that house in Tripoli, the decision was mine, and I chose you. For as long as you would have me.” 

Joe reaches up, curls one hand around Nicky’s neck, and pulls him down for a kiss. “I got up to get something,” Joe says, “and when I came back, you dropped to your knees before me."

“I thought I might not take another breath if I didn’t have you in my mouth immediately. “

“Your mouth, Nico—“

“When I looked up, you were looking back at me. Your hair was hanging on either side of your face, and it seemed that even if someone else had been there, only I would have seen your eyes. The look you had was for me alone, and I felt—“ Nicky pauses.

“Loved?”

Nicky’s smile as he shakes his head is so affectionate and fond. “I felt cherished.”

“You were, my love. You are. I remember your eyes. I remember you looked at me like I was the sun. I would have given anything, would have given my immortality if it meant you would look at me that way forever."

Joe remembers how it had seemed blasphemous to speed things along, no matter how much he wanted to lose himself inside Nicolò’s perfect mouth. Instead, he’d rocked in, slowly, his hands cupping Nicolò’s head, Nicolò’s name in his mouth as his climax uncoiled itself from the base of Joe’s spine and spread out. When he’d said _Please_ , and brushed the hair back from Nicolò’s forehead, the only reply had been a blissful sigh and a fluttering of lashes as Nicolò’s eyes closed. 

Joe remembers saying Nicolò’s name over and over, a litany as he spilled over Nicolò’s tongue. “You had charcoal in your hair when you stood up again.”

“On my face, too. But how could I care when you were in front of me, my heart and my future, kissing me and licking the taste of yourself from my mouth?”

“Such filth, Nico.” Joe smiles; Nicky kisses him again, and Joe's cock throbs in his jeans.

“Now I know better. You could have had hair this short, could have been shorn clean; when you looked at me the way you did in Tripoli, it would still have been only for me.”

Nicky reaches over to the bed and grabs the towel he’d used after the shower. He uses it to swipe the back of Joe’s neck clean. 

“It will dry almost before the rest of you after a shower. That will be nice.” It will be. He’s used to it being wet even hours after the shower.

“You used to spread it out while I slept to help it dry faster.”

“The sooner it dried, the sooner I could bury my face in it.” Joe sees Nicky’s eyes lose focus, sees a smile tug at the corners of his mouth. 

“You’re thinking about Mongolia. That afternoon by the river?”

“No, Chandu.”

“What—“ There’s that smile again, and then Joe knows. “The Blue Room.”

There’s a flush creeping up the back of Nicky’s neck, and it’s adorable. How, nearly eight hundred years later, is this still a thing that can make him blush? It had been mostly new for both of them, no matter how tame it may seem now. After dozens of years traveling mostly alone, loving alone, this was breaking new ground. In that room, with its deep blue silks hanging on the walls, every surface had been alive with lovers moving together. Joe palms himself through his pants, grinding against his hand as he watches Nicky’s face. 

“What are you remembering, my Nicolò?” he asks, though he knows the answer. 

There had been a sea of other bodies in that room, all of them seemed to float on an ocean of blue cushions and blue carpets with piles so deep Joe can still feel them shifting under his feet. It was beautiful, the room, the night, the smell of incense and wine. The tragedy is that his memory can’t possibly include the most beautiful sight in the room, because Nicolò’s view could never include Nicolò’ himself. 

“I thought we'd be taken from there and killed for kissing each other. Of if not, I would have to feel my fingers itch as another’s hands touched you. But there were those men, against the pillar.”

Joe remembers the men. One tall and dark, the other taller, but pale, his hair nearly blond. At first, they’d only been kissing, but the kisses had grown deeper and needier, hands had begun to roam. No matter the other sights, Nicky’s eyes would drift back to them, waiting for someone to turn on them, to call it unnatural. Instead, a woman had approached with a cup of wine and poured it down he pale man’s back. Behind him, his lover had kissed his back and lapped at the stream as it dripped down. When he’d parted his lover’s ass, licking in to clean any lingering wine, the lover had groaned and thrown his head back. The woman with the cup had only smiled and kissed the moans from his mouth.

At the time, it had felt like a switch was flipped somewhere inside Nicolò’s mind. Freed to love in the open, Nicolò had led them both to a nest of cushions and whispered everything he wanted Yusuf to do to him, with him, everything they could do together. He’d been utterly shameless in a way he wouldn’t be again for another hundred and fifty years. Even then, it would be Yusuf who was the instigator with Nico as his enthusiastic accomplice.

The shamelessness is what's making him blush now. Not the act of love, not even being seen during that act, but the abandon, the openness, and desire to be watched. He’d arranged them on the cushions so they could suck each other at the same time, and even now, Joe can hear Nicolò’s moans as though it were only moments ago. At one point, Nicolò had worked his way into a position where he could lavish attention further back, could tease Yusuf open with his lips and tongue. ” _Let them hear you,_ ” he’d said before sucking a noisy kiss on Yusuf’s hole, and how could Yusuf do other than as his love asked? 

“When you were behind me,” Nicky says. “You were gripping my hips so hard I could feel your fingers digging in as you fucked me. I wanted to fall forward, to close my eyes, bury my face in a cushion, and give over to the way it felt, the drag of your cock into me."

On the chair, Joe spreads his knees and lets Nicky step in between them, bringing them even closer. “You didn’t. You stayed up,” Joe says.

Nicky’s thumb is warm and dry as it strokes his cheekbone. 

“I was hungry for their stares, for them to watch.” He puts the clippers on the small dresser.

Joe takes his hands, rests his forehead against Nicky’s chest. In his mind, he can see again how beautiful Nicolò had been, on his hands and knees in front of Yusuf, legs spread wide and voice husky as he begged, _”Harder. Please, more.”_

“You liked them watching.”

“Yes, but not only that.” Nicky leans back, catching Joe under the chin and tilting his head up. “I wanted to show them what it is to be loved by you. For me, it's always been a miracle, a gift. There are no words; you know this, you’ve tried.”

Joe had written poetry, stories, novels, trying to capture what it felt like to be the object of Nicky’s love and to love Nicky in return. He’d filled more volumes than he could count, but none had ever come close to its truth. 

“In the Blue Room that night,” Nicky says, "they could see it. They could see our love in how our bodies came together, and the sweat on our skin. I kept my face up, and I moaned like a whore, because while we had the chance, for that sliver of time, I would not hide. I would not pretend I didn’t break apart only to have you put me together again every time you fucked into me.”

He bends and kisses Joe, a promise of things to come. “Men and women lost themselves to pleasure while they looked at us. Cocks wept, and women gushed over the fingers inside them. Even the two men by the pillar stroked each other as they watched us.”

Nicky drapes himself across Joe’s lap, straddling him with their mouths almost touching. "We were the most beautiful lovers in that room, and we made sure no one could deny it.”

“Your skin tasted like sweat when I kissed you.”

“I remember. I remember your lips between my shoulder blades, and your hair brushing my back as you bent over me.”

“You won’t feel that again for a while,” Joe says, smiling against Nicky’s mouth. “Will you still wash it for me?” He’s joking, but Nicky's response is entirely earnest.

Leaning back in the chair, his hands gripping Joe’s shoulders, Nicky meets his eyes. "I will take care of you every chance I get.” 

It’s such a ‘Nicky’ thing to say that Joe feels his throat tighten. This man, fiercely protective, vicious when riled, relentless in battle, is still the man who cares for them all so much. He’s the one who looks after them, and feeds them, and drapes a blanket over Booker when he passes out on the sofa.

“You’ve spent the last hour telling stories about you loved my hair.”

“No, Joe. I have spent the last hour telling stories about how I love _you_ , no matter what your hair was like. You've shaved it to the skin at some points; other times, it’s been so long I have to lift it out of the way to reach this spot,” he leans in and kisses Joe behind his ear. “But at every point, you have always owned my heart. Do you love me more when I’m wielding a sword than when I’m aiming a rifle?”

The idea is beyond ridiculous. Nicky being terrifyingly good at something is always sexy no matter what the— ah.

Nicky smiles. “To say I might love you more when your curls tumble down your back is to say that I would love you more in armor than in jeans. It’s beautiful, Yusuf, but it’s only part of you, it’s not the whole thing. If you kept your hair this length for the rest of our lives, I would not love you less. I would just find a different part of you to grip while I kiss you.” He presses his lips to Joe’s. “Or when I fuck your mouth.” He shifts himself up and forwards, and now he’s pressed against Joe’s aching, neglected cock. “What matters, the only thing that has ever mattered, is you.”

It’s more than Joe can take, he needs to be kissing Nicky like he needs air. Surging up, Joe grips the back of his neck, hoping Nicky will be able to feel every one of their thousand years of love in this kiss.

Nicky’s groan as he licks his way into Joe’s mouth is obscene. Gripping one of Nicky’s hips, Joe grinds against him. Out of instinct, probably, Nicky’s hands fly up to Joe’s head, and his fingers scrabble briefly against Joe’s scalp. When they don’t find purchase there—and how would they?—Joe feels Nicky’s grip slip to the back of his head and the sharp, sweet sting of Nicky’s fingernails digging into the nape of his neck.

The sound Joe makes is more a growl than anything else, and he can feel Nicky’s laugh rumble against his chest.

“You see?” Nicky says. “I knew I'd find a place to hold onto.” He curls his fingers again, and Joe feels the pinching pressure shoot straight to the base of his cock.

“Nicky, I—“

“In the bed,” Nicky says. “We’re too old to fuck on rickety chairs.”

“We’re immortal.”

“Even when we died the first time, we were too old for that.” He pulls Joe up and steers him to the bed.

They fuck with all the pent-up energy of men who’ve been verbally stroking each other’s cocks for more than an hour. Every one of those memories felt in the heat of their skin and the force of their thrusts. When Nicky finally pushes into Joe, after what feels like endless begging, Joe cries out so loud Andy bangs on the ceiling of the kitchen below them. Nicky grins and rolls his hips again, just the same way. They’ll pay for it, sure, but it’s worth it.

Later, when Joe is still feeling the aftershocks of Nicky’s climax pulsing inside him, and a pleasant, sated hum that stretches clear to his fingers, he looks down at Nicky and smiles. He drops forward, bracing himself on his hands so he can hold himself just above Nicky, and they can kiss a while longer. 

Nicky strokes the fine, short hairs on Joe’s head. He can’t seem to stop stroking them. “It’s so soft,” he says. “I’d forgotten how soft it is when it’s so short. Even softer than when the curls get long.” He’s practically petting Joe now. 

“I can keep it this way for a while if you want.”

“Would you?” He sounds surprised that Joe would do anything to keep Nicky’s hands on him.

“Yes, Nicolò.” He kisses Nicky’s perfect nose. “Yes."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back me up on this, guys. If you're going to have an orgy in 13th century in Mongolia, you do it at Xanadu, right? Of course you do. So did these two. 
> 
> Olive oil, by the way. That's how you get slime out of hair. Even glitter slime. Don't ask me how I know, just trust me. Works for gum, too. Sadly, Joe didn't bother checking the internet before he whipped out those clippers. 
> 
> There are extremely specific pictures that inspired a few of the hair-growth phases mentioned here. I'll let that be a tumblr scavenger hunt for anyone who's bored.
> 
> And now I think it's time for a truly bonkers AU. Who wants to see Andy in a tank top, holding a sledgehammer?

**Author's Note:**

> You can, as always, find me on the tumbls as [werebearbearbar](http://werebearbearbar.tumblr.com). If you found me here and ended up following me there, or vice versa, let me know your username, I'd love to be able to put names to... other names, I guess. Anyway, come say hi if you want. We can talk about these doofuses and how pretty they are.


End file.
